


Young and Vibrant

by Haecceity



Series: Political Allies [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dalish cultural headcanon, Discussion of Homophobia, Fantastic Racism, I did historical research, Introspection, M/M, Morbid thoughts, Spoilers, Tevinter is Byzantium, Unreliable Narrator, discussion of slavery, does this count as Iron Bull critical?, inexplicit sex scene, negotiating relationship boundaries, religious differences, slavery apologia, video game dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-08 10:51:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3206531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haecceity/pseuds/Haecceity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When I played I was disappointed by how few options there were for my Dalish Inquisitor to express himself without accidentally swearing himself to Andraste, agreeing with Thedosian cultural norms, or letting things go that I wanted to be able to have him argue about.</p><p>This fic now also covers my frustrations with Dorian's dialogue and romance, Iron Bull's personal quest, and some of the game mechanics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In your Heart Shall Burn

**Author's Note:**

> I'm approaching this as someone with a social disability who liked the trouble Merrill had with acclimating to Kirkwall. If anything sticks out to anyone as wrong or ignorant or like I forgot about something important, I'd like to talk about it.

Mahanon Lavellan lifted his head and stared into cold, damp darkness. The surprise that he was still alive faded as grey waves of nausea drove conscious thought from him. A sour, acidic scent told him he’d already emptied his stomach while he was out. 

That wasn’t a good sign.

He used the wall to slowly get himself into a vertical position and then took stock. Even touching the right side of his head made him feel dizzy so he stopped. His left arm ached, reminding him of the way his feet had abruptly left the ground. Corypheus sneering at him and then tossing him aside. The roaring, tearing pain in his hand that felt like Corypheus was trying to siphon his soul out through a reed.

**The anchor is permanent. You’ve spoiled it with you’re stumbling.**

And there it was. Twinkling like his own green nightlight in the dark of the tunnel. Mahanon flexed his hand gingerly and started walking.

The crowd of demons blocking his path jolted the pain into the background. He reached out with his left hand and let instinct guided him. The feeling of Corypheus pulling at him and the way the mark had pushed back….

Flaring green, the rift opened over the demons. They disintegrated into flakes of shining green in front of his eyes. The shriek of despair seemed to hang on the air as he blinked away the afterimages and shuffled forward again.

A wall of white stopped Mahanon cold. Jamming his hands under his coat along the protective vest, he groaned. Cullen may have hoped he’d find a way to survive the attack but no one was going to come back to check. He didn’t have to leave during what appeared to be full dark and the middle of a snowstorm but every day he waited for the snow to let up was another day he went hungry. There weren’t even any deep mushrooms growing along the way he’d come. The ache in his head warned he needed a healer. It was too dark to tell if the blurriness on the left was his imagination or not. Going to sleep alone in his current condition might be a good way not to wake up.

Even if he left right now in the middle of the storm, there was no reason he absolutely had to follow the Inquisition. He could set out for Gwaren, sail to Kirkwall, and cut toward Wycome to see if he could pick up his Clan’s trail. Of course, he was still marked. There was still a giant darkspawn who could pick an elf up like it was nothing and his pet dragon. Closing his eyes, Mahanon could all too easily picture his Clan turned into so much meat.

Multiple options. Only one choice.

Shivering, the wind tugging at his coat and ears, Mahanon tried to find a rhythm for walking in the snow. Shivering was good. When the shivering stopped, then he’d be in trouble.

For a few paces he distracted himself by imagining his corpse lying in a snowbank, forgotten by the world. One more brave idiot who thought he could outsmart the weather. Would his hand still glow green as a collection of bones? Or would there be nothing to differentiate him from any other refugee who became lost in the cold?

Then the wolves started howling and he began to wonder whether his bones would be scattered by scavengers or left in some semblance of order. Would he be identifiable as a single corpse or would no one ever know what became of the Herald of Andraste? Well, he guessed maybe Solas would come back and wander the Fade to find wherever Mahanon finally dropped.

The Dalish elf who didn’t know when to leave well enough alone, chosen by his Clan to be sent forth for his inquisitive nature and stunning ability to complete entire conversations without calling anyone shemlen, called the Herald of Andraste by Andrastians of all people, the one who returned from a dark future to gain the allegiance of the mages, the one who closed the gaping hole in the sky, an elf who faced down ancient shemlen monsters and lived. Felled by a snowstorm. Perfect.

With a sigh, Mahanon struggled up a steeper incline. If he did live, then what? The kind of notoriety he’d get from that list of accomplishments would chase him wherever he went. His Clan was no protection from that. He was stuck with his reputation and the mark on his hand was permanent. Corypheus might be mistaken but he surely wasn’t lying.

Clapping his hands and breathing on them, he knew the War Council was right, they could only protect him so long as he was with them. Knowing that he was fighting the wind toward more shemlen political games made him think longingly of sitting around the fire with his Clan going about their business.

Mahanon imagined himself seated by Keeper Istimaethoriel, telling her about everything that had happened to him since he’d left. She’d sent him to discover so many things that were unimportant if not completely irrelevant now. Who did the Divine favor? If the mages had the upper hand, was there any chance they might be willing to trade knowledge of elven ruins for aid? Might perhaps even some Dalish mages who’d been forced out of their Clans be willing to come talk to Keeper Istimaethoriel? If the Templars had the upper hand did that mean they were about to get a good enough grip on the mages that they might feel like they had the resources to start tromping through the woods looking for Dalish mages?

He still didn’t know exactly what had caught his attention, only that one moment he’d been lurking and the next he’d known a hunt was on but not what for. Then he’d awakened in chains with Cassandra yelling at him. The cold, hard glares of the shemlen she’d marched him past had felt practically normal compared to the giant rip in the sky and the pain in his hand. Mahanon considered and discarded several ways to describe Cassandra in terms Keeper Istimaethoriel would appreciate. Cassandra was a Hunter but her Clan was all of the Southern Chantry. In some way he was still vague on, she and Leliana were both directly responsible for the Divine’s continued life and both had taken their failure very seriously. Which spoke well of them so far as Mahanon was concerned. He was sure he wouldn’t believe a shemlen who appeared out of nowhere at the scene of his Keeper’s murder.

That Cassandra and Leliana had thought him capable of assassinating the Divine was a little flattering in a way he was never going to inform them of. He suspected Leliana knew that. Which was all he had to say on the topic of Leliana. The future version of her belonged in a different part of the story.

He considered whether he would tell Keeper Istimaethoriel first about Varric and Solas or Cullen and Josephine. Cullen and Josephine were easier to explain but he’d met Varric and Solas next in the order of events. The loss of his knives that he’d brought with him from his Clan ached almost physically for a moment. 

Cullen and Josephine then.

“Cullen is a sort of leader of Hunters,” he murmured into the dark snowfall in the language of his Clan. “Or he reminds me more of a Hunter than of the Templars he used to belong to. He was Cassandra’s pick to the War Council and it shows every so often. Josephine was Leliana’s. We don’t have anyone like Josephine. I don’t know if that’s our weakness or hers. She’s very polite and kind and earnest. I wish I liked her better, to be honest. She makes an effort but she also told me that you would understand that I’m moving in different circles from you. You’d be proud of me, I let it go. As you say, we need to show the shemlen we aren’t bloodthirsty savages. We need to show them what The People can be. I remembered why you sent me.

“Solas does not have a high opinion of us. He said some of us are practically bandits which is true but many of us aren’t. He may look down on us but at least we’re trying. He appears to have spent much of his life in the Fade. I wish I could convince him to talk to you. He knows so many things we’ve forgotten. He goes into old ruins to find them and he comes back with pieces of history and he enjoys speaking of them. But he seems to be done trying to talk to us. If I didn’t have this anchor, I doubt he would share as freely with me as he did. He was surprised you sent me to the Conclave at all. Since I was the only one of The People there I suppose I can see his point.

“He and Varric were the first somewhat friendly people I met after the explosion. We don’t have anyone like Varric either. Well, Hahren Kanwy and his stories might come close. He said I wasn’t the first of The People to say something like that. He named his weapon after a woman and- no. He wants everyone to think his stories and his crossbow are the most important traits he has. Within a few minutes of meeting him he was batting his eyes at Cassandra to make her angry. He’s always willing to talk about practically anything but the crossbow. He noticed when I was having trouble making payment at the weapons mongerer and talked me through it. The trader was glaring at us both the whole time. He started playing cards with me to teach me money after talking to Josephine didn’t work.

“She had this presentation with papers stacked high enough to be a book on their own. ‘Varric says you don’t know anything about trade,’ she said. Which is true. When I was traveling with the mercenaries they handled purchases and I’m a Hunter. Trading is a thing for the Master Crafter or you. So I said I didn’t know. Three hours later she realized I didn’t know what a tariff was. I still don’t but I’m getting better at recognizing fair market value.

“Sera- I don’t think I’ll tell you about Sera. Or Mother Giselle.

“The Iron Bull is a Qunari spy but he’s honest about it. I’m not sure how to take that. I thought Rahne was enthusiastic about battle but she’s positively sedate next to The Iron Bull. He leads a mercenary company that’s a lot more careful about contracts than the one you used to get me into the Conclave. Apparently Qunari occasionally drug their own people. They also have people who have sex whenever someone has an itch. He keeps talking about how order needs to triumph over chaos and people need rules. His homeland sounds very organized but it also sounds like complete chaos.

“Madame Vivienne is a leader. She’s decided the mages who didn’t follow Grand Enchanter Fiona are her Clan and she will defend them with the weapons she’s most skilled at wielding. So far that’s her staff and her tongue. I’m pleased she considers me an ally because I doubt I could match her. I offered to get some books back for her. It speaks well of her that her concerns are for the well being of her people and their knowledge. So long as my path lies with the best interests of her people, I believe she will provide excellent guidance. She’d round you and Ellana up and put you in a Circle without thinking twice about what that would do to the Clan if she felt it would benefit the Circle.”

His voice growing hoarse and labored, Mahanon lapsed into silence. The ache in his left shoulder was becoming lost in the forest of aches spreading along his spine and hips as he fought the deep snow.

That Mahanon had been to Val Royeaux would be noted but it was a very anticlimactic part of the story. He went, he saw a group of frightened old women, the Lord Seeker ordered one of them punched, the Templars departed, and the Chantry decided to sit on its hands. The interesting part was when Grand Enchanter Fiona invited him to Redcliffe and that only because she didn’t remember doing so later. She didn’t even remember going to Val Royeaux. He supposed that was something to ask Dorian about if he got the chance.

_Don’t worry. I’m here, I’ll protect you._ It had been flippant but Mahanon still felt warmed by it. He’d tried to tell himself later that he’d been feeling the result of Dorian’s confidence, but he wasn’t that good at lying even between his own ears.

He’d known it was a trap and instead of deciding to just go to Therinfal Redoubt, he’d walked into it. That part would be easy to explain to his Clan. The Templars were the strong arm of the Chantry and a constant threat any time one of the mages came close to civilization. Siding with them was out of the question whatever Cullen’s lingering sympathies for his former Clan.

Even imagining telling the Keeper he was stalling. He grimaced at himself. He’d taken Dorian’s offer of help and his advice on how to approach Alexius. The result had been a glimpse of the world Corypheus was trying to create. Worthwhile intelligence on an agenda of murder and demons but that wouldn’t be what the Keeper would want to hear about or what his nightmares showed him again and again.

The sky that had been screaming with green mouths that drooled demons. The Breach was the sky and the sky was the Breach. Its hunger was matched only by that of the crystal spines of red lyrium growing out of the walls and bodies. The whole world had been filled with nothing but that devouring corruption everywhere he looked. Even Cassandra and Solas had been shedding clouds of red dust that made him afraid to breathe too near them.

Dorian had been so sure there was a way to fix the world. Mahanon could barely remember how suspicious and annoying he’d found Dorian when they’d first met. He hadn’t been lying even a little when he’d told Dorian there was no one he’d rather be lost in time with. If Corypheus had succeeded in removing the mark from Mahanon’s hand, he’d be setting off to Wycome head injury or no.

Mahanon’s breath was coming shorter but he didn’t dare stop. If he died here in the Frostbacks, it’d simplify many things. He leaned harder into the wind, looking for signs he was on the refugees’ trail.

The wolf wind continued to howl and bite at him as he stumbled on feet too numb to maintain his balance. 

**-spoiled it-**

He struggled with his coat. He was burning up and it needed to come off but he couldn’t manage the fastenings. After flailing with the coat for a few heartbeats he drew an exhausted breath and headed uphill again on hot coals. The world was white and howling as he began muttering under his breath, “Mythal preserve me. Elgar’nan, light my path.” He continued through the pantheon and then repeated them again. And again. And again.

He could feel eyes on him but he wasn’t sure anymore if they were wolves or Solas or something else. He was on fire and his limbs ached with strain, throbbing in time with his head.

“Embers? Recent?” Surprise brought the words out a small eternity later. He blinked blearily and swayed slowly in the track left by the refugees. 

The last thing Mahanon heard before he lost consciousness were Cullen and Cassandra’s voices. He barely even felt his knees hit the ground.

Mahanon woke surrounded by shemlen. After surreptitiously checking to be sure his fingers, toes, ears, and nose were intact; Mahanon opened his eyes. The tent was open, facing a large fire. Each individual of the injured had his or her own bed. The sight was alien and wasteful to Mahanon’s gaze.

In the caravan, the Keeper would have ordered the sails off the aravels to use as skirts to trap heat near the ground. Those suffering from exposure sickness would be gathered under the aravels to share body heat with each other and the healthy would lie among them, sharing blankets. 

Raised voices caught Mahanon’s attention. The War Council was arguing in front of the entire camp. He guessed Madame Vivienne hadn’t joined them because it was beneath her dignity and they were unlikely to accomplish anything.

He deliberately closed his eyes on the sight and tried to close his ears as well. He heard someone sit next to him and reopened his eyes to see Solas. “Andaran’atishan.”

Solas frowned lightly and spoke in the same language. “Cole heard you praying in the snow.” He spoke more fluidly than anyone Mahanon had heard before, never replacing any words with Tevene, Orlesian, or the language of Fereldan and the Free Marches. Even the Keepers of the Dirth had to substitute for lost words.

The beauty of the language filled Mahanon’s chest with a pain sharp enough to make him gasp.

“I came to check on the mark.” Solas continued when it became clear Mahanon had lost the thread of the conversation. “It’s changed.”

“Corypheus tried to take it. Failed.” Mahanon stumbled, trying not to use any words but the elven ones. He wanted nothing of the shemlen in his mouth this moment. “I opened instead of closing.” His hand felt like it weighed as much as a trebuchet as he lifted it. The fingers flexed at his command. He let his hand drop back down.

“Interesting.” Solas took Mahanon’s hand in his own and squinted at it. “You should sleep,” he finally said, laying Mahanon’s marked hand back on his chest.

Mahanon fell into dreams of fire and rockslides. Shemlen with the eyes of wolves kept pace as he searched a rain of red lyrium for the Keeper. She had something for him that he desperately needed or-

Waking again, Mahanon found Mother Giselle sitting at his bedside. The racket of the War Council’s deliberations had increased in volume and they were splitting along faction lines. For a moment, all Mahanon could see were the wolves of his dreams circling him, their eyes taking something from him he could never regain. Taking a deep, calming breath Mahanon focused on the King’s Speech and his Marcher accent.

“Shhh, you need rest,” Mother Giselle’s quiet Orlesian accent said under the yelling.

“They’ve been at it for hours,” Mahanon said without a hint of the Dales in his voice.

“They have that luxury thanks to you. The enemy could not follow, and with time to doubt, we turn to blame. Infighting may threaten as much as this Corypheus.”

“Do we know where Corypheus and his forces are?” Mahanon asked to forestall talking about whatever solutions Mother Giselle might have to the infighting that would need his cooperation.

“We are not sure where we are. Which might be why, despite the numbers he still commands, there is no sign of him. That, or you are believed dead. Or without Haven, we are thought helpless. Or he girds for another attack. I cannot claim to know the mind of that creature, only his effect on us.”

A “no” would have answered Mahanon’s question but he refrained from saying so. “The only thing yelling get us is a headache. Another headache.” Mahanon gingerly touched the right side of his head. They had to have used magic to get it to heal so quickly.

“They know. But our situation- your situation- is complicated. Our leaders struggle because of what we survivors witnessed. We saw our defender stand… and fall.” Mother Giselle said gently.

A cold knot formed in the pit of Mahanon’s stomach. He’d known it was coming. Knowing should have made it hurt less.

“And now we have seen him return,” Mother Giselle continued placidly. “The more the enemy is beyond us, the more miraculous your actions appear. And the more our trials seem ordained.”

Mahanon touched the old knife scar along his right cheek, the one that started just short of the corner of his mouth and continued back into the hairline. Somehow he hadn’t quite expected the Andrastians to place religious significance to the survival of one of The People. He’d expected tall tales and notoriety, not what Mother Giselle was implying. This was far more likely to get his Clan gutted if he ever went back to stay. Too many would want to prove no member of The People could be beloved of Andraste. Far too many for the Hunters to cope with. He could never ask that of his Clan.

Panic clawed in Mahanon’s chest, beating black wings across his vision.

“That is hard to accept, no? What “we” have been called to endure? What “we,” perhaps, must come to believe?”

“I escaped the avalanche,” Mahanon protested, dimly noting his accent didn’t waver. “Barely, perhaps, but I didn’t die.” He definitely did not need stories of his glorious, Maker approved resurrection floating around.

“Of course, and the dead cannot return from across the Veil. But the people know what they saw.”

Mahanon’s shoulders tightened.

“Or perhaps, what they needed to see. The Maker works both in the moment, and in how it is remembered. Can we truly know the heavens are not with us?”

Flinching, Mahanon looked up. It was on the tip of his tongue to argue that of course he knew. The heavens were sealed and no amount of wishful thinking or shemlen mysticism could change that. Instead, as he had been doing for months, he ruthlessly quashed the desire. “Does it matter what I believe? People will do as they will.” He stood and walked away, keeping a, “present company included,” behind his teeth. The bitter taste of those unspoken words stayed with him as he observed the War Council gone off to its separate quarters to sulk.

Or maybe that was the wind carrying the scent of bronto dung.

And then Mother Giselle started singing. The song was unfamiliar to Mahanon but that it was Andrastian was clear. Leliana joined in first and then more and more shemlen. The hair on the back of Mahanon’s neck stood up when the song crescendoed into lines about taking up arms for faith and they began kneeling to him. Their eyes were wanting and hopeful, ripping into him. He wanted the wolves’ howling back.

“An army needs more than an enemy,” Mother Giselle said as the echoes of the hymn died away. “It needs a cause.”

Glaring at her back, Mahanon let her have the last word. He revised his opinion not to tell Keeper Istimaethoriel about Mother Giselle. Someday he would have a chance to talk to the Keeper again and he would tell her about the Orlesian Chantry.

“A word?” Solas asked from behind Mahanon.

Making a conscious effort to relax his hands from the fists they had made at some point, Mahanon followed Solas into the dark, away from the eyes that wanted to devour Mahanon.

Solas stopped by a veilfire torch he lit with a wave of his hand. He spoke in their shared language, “The humans have not raised one of our people so high for Ages beyond counting. Their faith is hard won, lethallin, worthy of pride… save one detail. The threat Corypheus wields? The orb he carried? It is ours. Corypheus used the orb to open the Breach. Unlocking it must have caused the explosion that leveled the Conclave. We must find out how he survived… and we must prepare for the reaction when they learn the orb is of our people.”

“Alright,” Mahanon said with a sigh, resignation warring with pleasure to hear at least one person still acknowledge him as elven. He went on in his broken tongue, “What is it and how do you know about it?”

“Such things were foci, said to channel power from our gods. Some were dedicated to specific members of our pantheon. All that remains are references in ruins and faint visions of memory in the Fade, echoes of a dead empire. But however Corypheus came to it, the orb is elven and with it he threatens the heart of human faith.”

“Even if we defeat Corypheus,” Mahanon said, immediately seeing a problem, “eventually they’ll find a way to blame elves.”

“I suspect you are correct. It is unfortunate but we must be above suspicion to be seen as valued allies. Faith in you is shaping this moment but needs room to grow. By attacking the Inquisition Corypheus has changed it, changed you. Scout to the north. Be their guide. There is a place that waits for a force to hold it. There is a place where the Inquisition can build, grow: Skyhold.”

Mahanon looked north for a long moment, letting Solas’s voice fade into the snowy wilderness. “Alright. I can do that. I don’t know how we are on supplies or how far north we’re talking about.” The knot in his gut twisted. “We’ll lose a lot of them to the weather if it’s more than a few days.”

“We’ll lose many of them to their injuries regardless.” Solas answered. “But it’s near enough that our supplies should hold.”

“I think I’ll stay out here for a few minutes. Then I’ll talk to the War Council. Perhaps we shouldn’t arrive back at the same time.” Mahanon tilted his head back to look up at the stars.

“That may be wise.” Solas said. The sound of his footsteps crunching in the snow faded into the distance.

Mahanon didn’t allow himself to cry for very long. His hands shaking, he muffled his sobs into something nearly soundless. He knew he shouldn’t sit in the snow so soon after the healing he received or going out to scout in the morning but his legs made the decision for him. He tried to close his eyes hard enough to squeeze out the image of the Faithful kneeling around him, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

Remembering the breathing exercises the Keeper had taught him when he was young felt like swimming upstream during the spring floods. In barely any time, objectively, he had himself back under control and pushed himself to his feet. By the time he presented himself to Cassandra at their maps, he was nearly normal.

The time it took to locate Skyhold with Solas’s help was short enough that they still had food to spare. Mahanon spent as little daylight as possible within the bounds of the camp. Sleeping better than he had ever slept stifled indoors in Haven, he left before dawn and stayed out of range of easy conversation until it was time to call it a night.

Seeing Skyhold framed against the mountains was breathtaking. Even with the holes in the roof large enough for him to see the mountains on the other side and the partially crumbled wall, it was a sturdy, defensible building. As Mahanon had felt in Haven when he’d seen the signal flare go up over the Frostbacks, there was a clarity to the moment. He had done everything that had been asked of him.

After marking the way, Mahanon hung back, letting most of the others file into the fortress before him. The scope of the place was beyond even that of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, his previous marker for grand architecture. He found himself gawking at it on his way in, failing to notice the War Council having a quick conference in the courtyard until Cassandra made eye contact. The sinking sensation returned when she waved him over. The speed at which the others cleared out didn’t make him feel any better.

“They arrive daily from every settlement in the region,” Cassandra said, gazing at the flock of people tasked with making Skyhold livable. “Skyhold is becoming a pilgrimage.” Cassandra let those words sink in before taking a step back and leading Mahanon up the steps. “If word has reached these people, it will have reached the Elder One. We have the walls and numbers to put up a fight here.”

Mahanon followed her cautiously, noting that they were now easily seen by everyone in the lower courtyard but unable to think of a gracious way to be anywhere else.

“But this threat is far beyond the war we anticipated. But we now know what allowed you to stand against Corypheus, what drew him to you.” She paused at a turn in the steps.

“He came for this,” Mahanon said, gesturing with his left hand. The mark glowed green even in direct sunlight. “And now it’s useless to him so he wants me dead. That’s it.”

“The anchor has power but it’s not why you’re still standing here.” Cassandra said firmly before starting up the second flight. “Your decisions let us heal the sky. Your determination brought us out of Haven. You are the Creature’s rival because of what you did. And we know it. All of us.”

Somehow, Mahanon was not surprised to see Leliana waiting on the landing with a sword resting on her palms.

“The Inquisition requires a leader,” Cassandra continued. “The one who has already been leading it.”

Turning, Mahanon could see the shemlen in the upper and lower courtyards gathering. Their faces turned upward to see what was happening, their eyes hungry.

“You,” Cassandra said.

“You’re offering this to an elf?” Mahanon asked even though the answer was evident. “Are you quite sure you know what you’re doing?”

“I would be terrified handing this power to anyone but I believe it is the only way. They’ll follow you.” Cassandra jutted her jaw slightly to the crowd. “To them being an elf shows how far you’ve risen. How it must have been by Andraste’s hand. What it means to you, how you lead us: that is for you alone to determine.”

Looking at the hilt of the sword, Mahanon could see the individual scales the craftsman had given the dragon that draped itself around the guard. He could walk away. He might not be able to go back to his Clan but he could go west or south and just… leave. Walk out through the portcullis and keep putting one foot in front of the other. Or he could tell them no. Tell them to find someone else to carry the responsibility. Either way, he could already hear the condemnation, “Always trust a rabbit to rabbit.”

Holding his breath, Mahanon took the sword in his hands. It wasn’t his weapon of choice, too long and unwieldly in his hands. He held it aloft for the waiting crowd of shemlen to see.

Many options, only one choice.

“Corypheus will never let me live in peace. He’s made that clear. He intends to be a god, to rule over us all. Corypheus must be stopped.” Mahanon announced.

“Wherever you lead us,” Cassandra told him. “Have our people been told?” she called.

“They have.” Josephine called back. “And soon the world.”

“Commander, will they follow?” Cassandra shouted.

“Inquisition, will you follow?” Cullen asked from his place in the crowd.

The cheering was the roar of a hungry beast.

“Mythal’enaste,” Mahanon murmured too quietly to be heard as he raised the sword higher.


	2. Leading Up To Wicked Eyes, Wicked Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm approaching this as someone with a social disability who liked the trouble Merrill had with acclimating to Kirkwall. If anything sticks out to anyone as wrong or ignorant or like I forgot about something important, I'd like to talk about it.
> 
> Credit where credit is due: this has a significant amount of dialogue exactly as said in the video game. The Dragon Age writers are really amazing.

Mahanon spent his first day as Inquisitor acquainting himself with where everything was located and talking to the new staff. From the stables to the towers to the smithy to the cells to the kitchen. He did his best to appear approachable but found himself staring over the battlements at the distant peaks of mountains and the light that played different colors across them throughout the day. 

The only person he sought out was Madame Vivienne.

“Oh, my dear!” Vivienne exclaimed. “Look at you! You’re a mess. Are you alright? Let me have a look at you.”

Wondering what had happened to put Madame Vivienne so on edge, Mahanon leaned away every so slightly. “I’ll be fine.”

Her expression cooled instantly. “Good. The soldiers will take their cue from your composure.”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve scouted a way out of a place that was on fire.” Mahanon said cautiously.

“Then you should learn to take better care of your headquarters.” Madame Vivienne said firmly.

“I’ll make sure to pay Corypheus back from Haven.”

“Our allies must see that this is the place that can hold against Corypheus.” Madame Vivienne said, a real smile flickering in her eyes and the corners of her mouth for a moment.

“I would value your advice on how to accomplish that,” Mahanon relaxed

Madame Vivienne gave him a piercing look and nodded her head. “As well you should. I’ll forward my design ideas to Ambassador Montilyet and the relevant news and gossip to your spymaster. The Inquisition will be a source of power and influence in Thedas.”

“With you at its center,” Mahanon noted calmly to let her know he was paying attention. It wasn’t so different from learning Ilene’s accent. It was largely a matter of paying attention to intonation and the use of specific words over others.

“Of course, darling.” She answered without shame, turning to leave. “Do try to keep up.”

It took some time to find the correct flight of stairs to his bedroom. Once Mahanon reached it he was greeted with the sight of a large bed, a desk, and broad windows. He walked over to the windows and stared out at the frostback Mountains, a smile spreading across his face. He turned back to the bed and stripped off all the blankets. Nestling in a cocoon of blankets on his balcony, Mahanon fell asleep listening to the wind.

The next day, he attempted to begin a routine for himself when he was in Skyhold. He checked in with his War Council bright and early, and met with Josephine separately after. Then to Varric where he reassured the dwarf he wanted a friend, not a disciple, and they played cards. He went out to the yard to train for a few hours before being sidetracked into deciding Cole could stay and checking in with Cullen. By the time Mahanon had made sure his horse was being well cared for, it was late afternoon.

After grabbing a quick bite to eat from the kitchen, he looked in on how The Iron Bull and the Bull’s Chargers were settling in and picked up information from Sera’s Red Jenny friends. He left quickly after she started rambling about the existence of Corypheus meaning the Maker had to be real.

“He might, He might not. Whichever it is, it has naught to do with me,” Mahanon said, holding up his hands and backing away. His accent slipped on the end of the sentence but he was already hurrying over to where Cassandra was whacking away at a practice dummy by the time he noticed.

Then he was back into the main hall to see the status of the War Council’s operations one more time. He talked briefly with Solas in the rotunda before going up the stairs to the library where he discussed creature research with Helisma and the status of the mages with Fiona. A trip up the second flight of stairs to the rookery where Leliana lurked led to him reassuring her that their people weren’t to be wasted to no purpose. Haven had been indefensible and no amount of intelligence would have changed that.

Mahanon finally looked around the library and located the person he’d been avoiding all day. Dorian was standing with his back to the room, scanning the titles of one shelf. Mahanon’s eyes caught in the clean lines of Dorian’s jaw and neck as the mage shifted position, hand outstretched and waiting to grab a volume.

Swallowing hard, Mahanon realized that from this moment onward if he didn’t lay with a shemlen it would be because he either was going to be turned down or he lost his nerve. He already knew precisely how his or any other Clan would react and he still wasn’t just considering, he was planning.

“Brilliant, isn’t it?” Dorian began as he heard Mahanon approaching. “One moment you’re trying to restore order in a world gone mad. That should be enough for anyone to handle, yes? Then, out of nowhere, an archdemon appears and kicks you in the head. ‘What? You thought this would be easy?’ ‘No, I was just hoping you wouldn’t crush our village like an anthill.’ ‘Sorry about that! Archdemons like to crush, you know. Can’t be helped.’” He turned around to face Mahanon. “Am I speaking too quickly for you?”

“I was distracted, that’s all.” Mahanon said, realizing the last time he’d flirted with someone he hadn’t known his entire life had been at the last Clan Meet. The standards for flirting there had been, ‘Me and you behind that tree. Yes or no?’ And he was fairly certain what worked with Rahne would not work with Dorian.

“Distracted? By my wit and charm? I have plenty of both.”

“Today at least.” Mahanon narrowed his eyes.

“Oh! You wound me!” Dorian said, pulling back in mock pain. “I always assumed the “Elder One” behind the Venatori was a magister, but this… is something else completely. In Tevinter, they say the Chantry’s tales of magisters starting the Blight are just that: tales. But here we are. One of those very magisters. A darkspawn.”

“Who does the Imperium say started the Blight?” Mahanon asked curiously.

“You know how it is. ‘Not us.’ They say darkspawn were always there, magisters and the Blight aren’t even related. Is that a surprise? No one wants to admit they shit the bed. But if Corypheus is one of the magisters who entered the Black City and he’s darkspawn… what other explanation is there?”

“We believe the magisters walked the Fade and brought something back with them,” Mahanon answered. “Or… were you not really asking?”

“It was intended rhetorically,” Dorian said, half shrugging a shoulder. “Brought back, you say. Not cursed?”

“The Fade is full of beings with agendas of their own. Perhaps the magisters offended. Perhaps they looked tasty.” It was Mahanon’s turn to shrug. “We weren’t there, we don’t know. It would be faulty to assume without more to go on than deaf patriotism on one side and blind faith on the other. That they were fools who left the door open seems likely.”

“I knew what I was taught couldn’t be the whole truth, but I assumed there had to be a kernel of it. Somewhere. But no, it was us all along. We destroyed the world.”

“Truthfully, we’re happy it wasn’t us.” Mahanon smiled wryly. Being part of a “we” that had once been a vast empire and now seemed to insist on embarrassing itself? That was a familiar feeling. He couldn’t think of anything that would lessen the sting. “If it helps, we blame the fools who did it.”

“One of them is up and walking around right now. Not to mention I have idiot countrymen who would happily follow him down that path again. No one will thank me whatever happens. No one will thank you either. You know that, yes?”

“That’s not why I’m doing this.”

“I knew there was something clever about you. All I know is this: Corypheus needs to be stopped. Men like him ruined my homeland. I won’t stand by and let him ruin the world.” Dorian said emphatically and brushed past Mahanon. Turning back he added, “Oh. And congratulations on that whole leading the Inquisition thing by the way.”

Mahanon winced and retreated back to his quarters. There he found Josephine’s aide waiting for him.

“Ambassador Montilyet requests your presence for dinner.”

“Tell her to give me half an hour,” Mahanon said wearily.

By the time Mahanon returned to his room for the night, Josephine had worked him around to agreeing to etiquette and dance lessons for the upcoming Ball in Halamshiral and he’d received a stack of reports as thick as his murder blade was long. In his absence, his bed had been made and more paperwork had been placed on his desk. He stared mutely at the room for a handful of heartbeats, dumped the reports on his desk, and stripped the blankets off the bed. It looked like rain outside. He made his bed on the rug.

The following morning he made a point of seeking out Minaeve. The young woman stared nervously at him. “Helisma said you’d been reassigned.”

“Yes. Is she- Are you displeased?” Minaeve’s eyes widened.

“No. Nothing like that.” Mahanon said quickly. “I wanted to see if you were alright. With everything.”

“Oh,” Minaeve looked down. “Thank you for saving my life,” she said cautiously.

Mahanon did not touch his face or fiddle with his knives. He folded his hands behind his back. “I wanted you to know that-” He thought better of his line of thought and started again. “I know it makes you uncomfortable-”

“I’m not one of your people,” Minaeve said with more backbone than he’d have expected.

“Yes. Everyone has been quite clear. I am the only Dalish elf presently working for the Inquisition.” Mahanon said more bitterly than he intended.

Minaeve’s whole body stiffened and Mahanon briefly envisioned her running screaming through the fort. That would be difficult to explain.

“But you are one of my people by working for the Inquisition,” Mahanon said very rapidly, accent slipping toward Dalish. “My people wronged you. I would not see that wrong compounded by my own errors. In spite of that wrong, you assisted me. I am in your debt.”

“I… thank you, Your Worship.” Minaeve said, still hunching.

“If it helps, I saved Lysette and Seggrit first.” Mahanon told her, backing away. “No favoritism.”

She made real eye contact with him for the first time since the conversation had begun. “I’ll remember that, Your Worship.” A smile trembled on the edge of existence around her mouth.

“Good,” Mahanon cleared his throat and made an effort to regain his Marcher accent. “I hope you enjoy your work.”

***

The Herald of Andraste reminded Dorian of a cat. Not some cherished pet that only moused for the pleasure of killing. He reminded Dorian of a half-starved, battle-scarred feral cat with his ears constantly laid back. The kind of cat that was always on the lookout for someone about to try tying something to his tail.

The reason wasn’t as simple or cliché as a term like “feline grace,” though the Herald certainly had that. (The cliché kind. Not the grace of a feline such as one of his mother’s friends had owned, that had perpetually fallen off the furniture.) The comparison had first crossed Dorian’s mind in Redcliffe Castle as the Herald had stabbed a rage demon and Dorian could all but see him flick his tail in satisfaction.

It was an impression that had only been reinforced by his one conversation with The Herald after their return to Haven. The whole time Dorian had been half sure the elf was about to skitter away into the shadows, desperate to be anywhere but in Dorian’s company. Sometimes he’d caught The Herald watching him or talking to Solas and then ducking away with that feral wariness. When The Herald came into the library still smelling like the practice yard and the stables, what was Dorian to expect but more barely contained hostility? That he hadn’t received it was odd but there was a pattern.

Therefore it was only to be expected that when he asked, “So I take it that you’re... Dalish? Is that the correct term here?” the elf responded by looking like Dorian was flicking water at him.

“Yes. That I am,” the Inquisitor said tiredly. “Why?”

“We don’t have Dalish clans coming northward,” Dorian said, wondering if he’d imagined the flirting only a few days ago. He saw the Inquisitor’s eyebrows going up, almost lost among the branches tattooed around them. “For obvious reasons. So I’ve never met one of your people before, although I’ve heard about them. A little. I hope this won’t be an issue between us, I am here to help you deal with the Ventaori, after all.”

“I’ll be fine,” the Inquisitor said, some negative emotion pulling his mouth downward. “I speak only for myself.”

“Well, no one could ask for more,” Dorian said brightly, ignoring the haunted look that crossed the Inquisitor’s face.

“You’ve more than proved yourself to me,” the Inquisitor said with unnerving sincerity before departing.

At least this time he smelled like lye soap.

***

Mahanon’s thoughts were taken from planning the mission to Crestwood to the reality of Skyhold by the rattle and thump of footsteps and furniture being shoved about. Climbing the stairs to the upper floor of the armory, he found Cassandra holding fistfuls of Varric’s shirt.

“You knew where Hawke was all along,” Cassandra said in his face.

“You’re damn right I did,” Varric said, escaping Cassandra’s grasp.

“You conniving little shit,” she said, taking a swing Varric easily dodged.

“You kidnapped me! You interrogated me! What did you expect?”

Mahanon sighed to himself. When he’d been apprenticed as a hunter, it had been his ambition to become the leader of the hunters in some distant future when Master Midarian had passed. Or maybe, if Mahanon lived a really long time, he might take over as storyteller. Instead, it appeared the Inquisition needed him to be a Keeper. He wasn’t trained for this.

“Hey! Enough!” Mahanon moved himself physically between them, trying to remember the way Keeper Istimaethoriel held herself when she did this.

“You’re taking his side?” Cassandra asked incredulously.

“I said enough!”

“We needed someone to lead this Inquisition,” Cassandra said more calmly. “First, Leliana and I searched for the Hero of Ferelden, but she had vanished. Then we looked for Hawke, but he was gone too. We thought it all connected, but no. It was just you. You kept him from us.”

Mahanon hoped telling her side would cool Cassandra’s temper a little. Now if Varric-

“The Inquisition has a leader,” Varric said, gesturing at Mahanon.

“Hawke would have been at the Conclave. If anyone could have saved Most Holy…” Cassandra’s grief and guilt filled her face and voice.

“Varric’s not responsible for the Breach.” Mahanon said gently, stepping more firmly into Cassandra’s center of focus. “He’s been here helping us fix things.”

“I was protecting my friend,” Varric insisted.

“Varric is a liar, Inquisitor. A snake.” Cassandra leaned around Mahanon to jab a gauntleted finger in Varric’s direction. “Even after the Conclave, when we needed him most, Varric kept him secret.”

“He’s with us now! We’re on the same side!”

“Varric, please leave,” Mahanon said quietly.

“We all know who’s side you’re on, Varric. It will never be the Inquisition’s.” 

“You both walked into that trap with me at Redcliffe. I trust both of you to do what you feel is right.” Mahanon stated, refusing to take his eyes off Cassandra.

Varric stormed over to the stairs and stopped. “You know what I think? If Hawke had been at the Temple, he’d be dead too. You people have done enough to him” With that ringing in the air, he left.

“I… believed him,” Cassandra said, guilt winning out over anger again. “He spun his story for me, and I swallowed it. If I’d just explained what was at stake… if I’d just made him understand… but I didn’t, did I? I didn’t explain why we needed Hawke. I am such a fool.” She sank into a chair as she spoke.

“No,” Mahanon said, squatting to be on her level. “Whatever Corypheus is, Hawke doesn’t know more about defeating him than we do. Varric is right. You heard the Divine. She called to me. Would she have done that if Corypheus hadn’t already separated her from those who were supposed to protect her? Hawke thought Corypheus was dead. He wouldn’t have been able to see it coming any more than you did. If he had been there, he wouldn’t be able to help us now. I’m not saying you made no mistakes.... I’m no good at this.” He grunted in frustration. “I think after you stabbed Varric’s book, he wasn’t going to talk to you. That doesn’t make what followed your fault.”

“I should have been more careful. I should have been smarter.” Cassandra said. “I don’t deserve to be here.”

“When you put me in charge, you made me the judge of that.” Mahanon said with a slight smile. “I say you do.” He saw Cassandra’s expression turn skeptical. “If you insisted you had done nothing wrong and you would take precisely the same actions if you had to do it all over, I’d feel differently.”

“I suppose we can’t really know,” Cassandra said with a sigh.

“I trust you to do what you feel needs doing. I trust you to tell me what you think I need to know. And in the future, I’m going to need you to come talk to me before you come to blows with someone on our side.”

“I think I can do that,” Cassandra said.

“I’m here to stab problems in the face until they stay down. But I won’t- what is the term- dress you down? in front of anyone else and I won’t do it to anyone else in front of you.”

“I want you to know, I have no regrets.” Cassandra told him. “Maybe if we’d found Hawke or The Hero of Ferelden, the Maker wouldn’t have needed to send you. But He did. You’re… not what I pictured. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that I know less than nothing.”

Mahanon grimaced at that. “I’m not what I pictured either. I should go talk to Varric.”

“He believes too, you know.”

“Yes, but,” Mahanon sighed. “He doesn’t treat me like the answer to his prayers.” He fled down the stairs before she could answer. 

Mahanon found Varric where he expected to find the dwarf, in the main hall where he could overhear the best gossip while appearing to simply bask in the heat of the large fireplace. “Cassandra’s calmed down. You can let Bianca get some rest.”

“Define “calmed down” for me in terms of who or what she’s punching right now,” Varric said in the controlled, husky tones of someone trying not to cry. “I wasn’t trying to keep secrets. I told the Inquisition everything that seemed important at the time.”

“I know. You were protecting your lethallin. I would have done the same.” Mahanon replied. “Are you sure though, that you didn’t like watching Cassandra chase her own tail?”

“I know I need to do better, I’m sorry.” Varric said heavily.

“That’s good enough for me,” Mahanon said, giving Varric what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “We should be ready to go to Crestwood day after tomorrow.”

“You’re the boss,” Varric said, a little lingering hopelessness clinging to the words.

***

The sun was shining, the road was more or less clear and they were almost packed when Leliana appeared at Mahanon’s elbow. “This letter just arrived.”

Accepting the letter, Mahanon tried to calculate how much time before they left for Crestwood. His calculations stopped when he saw the name at the bottom. Holding the letter out at arm’s length to get a better look at it, he began the patient process of reading.

“What are you doing?” Leliana asked after a long moment.

“Reading a letter from my Keeper,” Mahanon said absently before returning to silently sounding out words. “Does this say ‘unclimbed valley?’”

“Unclaimed,” Leliana answered.

“That makes more sense.”

“Inquisitor, do you require assistance reading?” Leliana asked in what Mahanon had begun to think of as her professional voice.

“It’s been a few years since I’ve really needed to read more than signposts,” Mahanon hedged.

“Do you normally read things so far away?” Leliana pressed.

“It’s blurry close up.”

“I see. I’ll assign one of my people to aid you. In the meantime, the letter?” A fraction of the time Mahanon had spent on the letter passed before Leliana said, “your Keeper complains of bandits. It is unusual for bandits to come so well equipped so close to Wycome itself. We should investigate this.”

“Please do,” Mahanon said, closing his eyes tightly

“Inquisitor! We’re ready to leave.” One of Cullen’s people informed him.

“Then we move out,” Mahanon said. He turned back to Leliana. “Please.”

“I’ll do what I can, Inquisitor,” Leliana said.

“All I ask,” Mahanon said and mounted his horse.

***

“We’ve liberated the fortress from the bandits, drained the lake, closed the rift causing the infestation of undead, and now we’re making house calls to the outlying regions. Have I understood correctly?” Dorian asked, evading mud puddles in a road composed primarily of mud and puddles.

“The Inquisition has taken this place under its protection so we will provide protection,” the Herald said staunchly.

“With personalized door-to-door service from the Inquisitor himself,” Dorian noted.

“Hands in the dirt,” mumbled Cole.

“And we’re here,” the Inquisitor announced.

“You aren’t worried another assassin will pop out and stab you while you help the defenseless woman? It seems the perfect place.” Dorian casually scanned the area.

“Are you worried?” the Inquisitor asked, eyebrows raised.

“Not as such, no.” Dorian said, checking over his shoulder. He watched from the doorway as the Inquisitor’s entire demeanor changed talking to the woman. The twitchiness left his fingers and he smiled faintly, giving this Judith an earnest, interested look while she spoke.

They were beautiful eyes, the same color as brandy. The spreading branches of the Inquisitor’s tattoo reached over and under them, newer than the scars where he’d been clawed across the face on his left. The woman was uneasily eyeing those scars but seemed willing enough to talk about the dragon and wyverns plaguing the area.

“Dragon first, wyverns second,” the Inquisitor told them. 

“You want to go after a High Dragon. On purpose?” Dorian folded his arms.

“Don’t worry. We’ll head back to Caer Bronach. I’ll take Bull, Solas, and Sera, I think.” The Inquisitor pulled out one of his daggers and began moving it through a set of dexterity exercises as he started back up the road.

Dorian hesitated, unfamiliar uncertainty slowing him. “I’ll be spending the rest of the day with a good book and piss poor wine then.”

“Do you want to come along for the wyverns?” the Inquisitor asked him, a mischievous smile lighting his face like a struck match. “Being able to make things explode would be helpful.”

“I-,” Dorian had the elusive feeling he was being offered something more than a trip into a dank cave filled with large, venomous reptiles. “If the Inquisitor insists on handling it personally, how can I do less?”

Performing a flourish with his daggers, the Inquisitor grinned more widely. The tattoo bisected his bottom lip and Dorian found himself wondering about that. He turned to Cole to ask him another question about being a Spirit.

***

Back at Skyhold, Mahanon’s life fell back into the routine he’d built for himself. Taking a break from training and listening to reports, Mahanon wandered over to where Cassandra was sitting with a book. He made noise with his boots on the grass as he neared her but she remained focused on the volume. “Good book?” he asked.

Cassandra gasped and jerked away, coming as close as he had ever seen her come to flailing to get away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mahanon pointed at the book in her hand. “You seemed really interested.”

“Oh, that!” She looked at the book as if she’d never seen it before. “Just… reports from Commander Cullen. It’s of no interest to you, I’m certain.”

Knowing that most of the upper level Inquisition staff were aware by now that he needed help keeping up and hearing Cassandra dismiss his interest so brusquely were two different things. He flinched back.

Cassandra sighed. “It’s a book. One of Varric’s tales. Swords and Shields. The latest chapter.”

“There are others?” Mahanon looked at the thickness of it incredulously.

“Yes.” Cassandra said stiffly. “I started reading them for research and then… we’ve been busy-”

“That’s just her favorite,” Dorian said, crossing the courtyard.

“Nobody asked you, Tevinter,” Cassandra shot back.

“I couldn’t finish the last one you lent me. I actually feel dumber for having tried.” Dorian shook his head and continued walking away.

“What-” Mahanon asked, frowning.

“It’s literature,” Cassandra said miserably. “Smutty literature.”

Mahanon felt his jaw drop and his eyes widen in horror. “Why would you keep-” Then he realized the book wasn’t dripping disgusting fluids. “Oh. You mean sex.”

Cassandra frowned uncertainly at him. “Whatever you do, don’t tell Varric.”

“Wouldn’t he be pleased to know you enjoy his work?” Of writing about people’s sex lives? Mahanon wasn’t sure he wanted to know how that worked.

“That would be one word for it,” Cassandra said, horror of her own playing across her face. She sighed. “They’re terrible. And magnificent. And this one ends in a cliffhanger. I know Varric is working on the next. He must be! You! You could ask him to finish it, command him to… Pretend you don’t know this about me.” She stalked off with Mahanon staring in confusion in her wake.

“What’s a cliffhanger?” Mahanon asked Varric at the earliest opportunity.

“It’s where the story ends without telling you what’s about to happen next. Like if I were to tell you a story about a card game and ended it with two men pulling knives.” Varric told him.

“But why would you do that? Isn’t the point of the story to tell what happens?”

“No, see, not if I want to sell more stories about these characters later. Get the audience worked up about them, make them care, and they’ll keep buying more. And sometimes the point isn’t what happens, it’s how it makes people feel.” Varric explained.

“How do you make them feel?” Mahanon asked curiously.

“A lot of ways. Pick the right characters, the right circumstances, and people will get curious and then they’ll want to know more and before they know it, they care about the story. Some of them even care so much they’ll write their own stories about what happened to the characters.”

“So, you don’t use real people? I thought you wrote about the Champion and your friends.”

“That was just for one book. The rest I make up.”

“How do you keep them all…” Mahanon waved a hand vaguely.

“Notes. Why? Has someone been talking to you about my writing?” Varric asked.

“Cassandra. She was reading Swords and Shields.”

“Wait, Cassandra was reading one of my books?”

“She seemed really… intense about it. You must have made her feel something. She wants to know what happens next.”

“Cassandra was reading my romance serial. And here I thought a hole in the sky was the weirdest thing that could happen. She’ll be waiting a while. I wasn’t planning to finish that one. That book is easily the worst I’ve ever written. The last issue barely sold enough to pay for the ink.” Varric grunted thoughtfully. “You want me to write another book in my worst serial. For Cassandra. That’s such a terrible idea I have to do it. On one condition: I get to be there when you give her the book.”

“That sounds fair,” Mahanon said, shrugging.

“You know, the fact that the book is terrible makes it more worthwhile somehow.”

“I’ll take your word for that.” Mahanon said and left him to it.

***

Mahanon approached Dorian, slowly. Some of the reports he was now hearing about the Venatori operations in the Hissing Wastes assumed a knowledge he didn’t possess. Asking Dorian before Leliana seemed less likely to waste the time of someone who already gave him extremely patient looks when he asked questions and loudly didn’t ask how his reading skills were. Dorian seemed to enjoy talking to anyone who would listen, even the Inquisitor, when he got going. They’d discussed Dorian’s past and elements of Tevinter before. “Can I talk to you?”

“I am, as you say in the South, ‘all ears,’” Dorian greeted him.

Mahanon self-consciously put his hands over the tips of his ears and frowned at Dorian.

“Ah, that is, I am at your disposal.” Dorian said uncomfortably.

“I was wondering about the Tevinter Imperium,” Mahanon said, cautiously lowering his hands to his sides.

“Yes, a topic of great fascination to those outside of it.”

“Well, slavery.”

“Anything specific about slavery?”

“I’m not sure I understand enough to ask. People are kidnapped and forced to work for people they don’t like? I know you don’t have Clans but- It doesn’t make sense.”

“Unwilling slaves from other lands make up only a small percentage of the slaves in Tevinter. Most are the children of slaves or people who’ve fallen into a debt. The children of slaves don’t know anything else. I didn’t know how different things could be until I came here and saw for myself.”

“Can you explain ‘fall into debt?’” Mahanon asked, concentration pulling his eyebrows closer together.

“Running out of money to buy necessities like food and the toll for the wells.” Dorian replied with an expression of growing discomfort.

“So they work for food and water. How is that different from the South?”

“In the South, if a man is born into poverty or becomes poor, he’s stuck in a slum or an alienage with no way out. In Tevinter, a man can sell himself into slavery and live in comfort. Perhaps even support a family.”

“How does he decide who to sell himself to?”

“Ah, that is decided for them.”

“What if he doesn’t like who he works for?”

“So many questions” Dorian said in a falsely bright tone.

“Can he leave if his-” Mahanon made a grasping motion.

“Taffy pull?”

“The person he works for.”

“Owner.”

“What can he do if his owner treats him poorly?” Mahanon touched the knife scar on his right cheek.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I supposed he could revolt, poison the tea, or some such. But the truth is, most slaves wouldn’t think of that.”

Mahanon stared at Dorian. “Shemlen are so strange.”

“It’s all they know. I’m not saying they’re happy-”

“Do you own slaves?”

“Not personally but my family does. They’re treated well.”

“But if they didn’t like your family, they couldn’t move away and start over somewhere else. Your family wouldn’t let them.”

“Well, no.”

“Why is being trapped like that better than being trapped in an alienage?”

“How does this work among your people? Who does the cleaning and the jobs no one else wants?”

“Everyone,” Mahanon answered simply.

“And if you didn’t like your Clan, where would you go?”

“The Keeper would arrange for me to join another Clan she thought might be a good fit. Or I could try to live alone. Or I could try living among shemlen.” Mahanon said before he realized he’d dropped the Marcher accent entirely.

“Just like that?”

“It wouldn’t be easy but it happens. Sometimes a parent and child come to realize they can’t share a camp or two good friends break with each other past healing or someone’s Bonded dies and they can’t live seeing the reminders of them everywhere. Being able to start afresh means that healing can happen because forced healing is no healing at all. Forcing people to stay just leads to bad blood.” Mahanon smiled grimly. “We Dalish know bad blood.”

“I don’t know what a slave’s life is like and I suspect you don’t either.”

Mahanon ran his thumb along the knife scar. “The Fifth Blight hit the Free Marches hard. Most of the refugees ended up in the coastal cities but that just meant Marcher refugees poured out of them. Some of the elves tried for the Clans. We took on everyone who found us. One of them was a woman from Orlais. When she was a girl she used to work at a fancy chateau. She was an orphan and unmarried and she needed the job, she said. She knew the lady of the house had a mean temper but she worked there anyway because she was afraid of being poor.” Mahanon looked at the floor as he spoke. “One day the lady threw a party and one of the guests didn’t like the cakes Esmeré had done. So the lady marched down to the kitchen, grabbed a pot off the stove, and dumped it over Esmeré’s hand.” He looked up into Dorian’s eyes. “She was so scared of what would happen to her if she left, she kept working there another three months. She said the lady could have told everyone she was a thief and people would believe her because she was a lady. She lost her job because she tried to keep the lady from doing something like to one of the other girls. She said, ‘There’s nothing worse than being at the mercy of someone who has none.’” Mahanon glanced down again. “She made wonderful cake.”

“That’s not-”

“I should go,” Mahanon said hoarsely and fled. To make very sure he wasn’t followed, he called the War Council into session.

“Are you alright, Inquisitor?” Josephine asked him.

“Ready to work. Do we have anything new?”

***

“I want to apologize,” Dorian said as if every word were pulled out by main force.

Mahanon looked up from where he was currying his horse, watchful and waiting.

“Since I’ve been here I’ve heard so many criticisms of myself and my homeland that I’ve begun to mistake them for the same thing. It seems it’s even worse when those criticisms are justified. I knew the corruption and the blood magic and the Venatori couldn’t be right. They’re against what I was taught. The slavery… we just accept it back home. I reacted poorly. I will need time to think about what you and Solas have said.” Dorian shifted his weight uncomfortably. “But know that I am thinking and I regret my bad behavior.”

“Apology accepted,” Mahanon said quietly, slowly moving the curry brush over his horse’s flank.

Dorian stood and watched for a long time before shuffling away a little unsteadily.

Pressing his cheek against his horse’s withers, Mahanon murmured to her what a good girl she was. His gaze turned to follow Dorian’s slightly weaving progress back to either the tavern or the hall and he sighed. The Anderfels Courser whickered at Mahanon and he returned to brushing her.

***

Mahanon made no mention of Dorian’s apology or their outbursts when he invited Dorian along to the Hinterlands to get people on his and Cassandra’s respective hit lists. The silence between them wasn’t what it had been before but by the time they returned to Skyhold, Mahanon was no longer catching Dorian looking at him like he was bracing for something.

After making sure all of his other business was attended to, Mahanon visited Dorian. He hadn’t been avoiding the library, he needed to talk to Helisma on a regular basis. This time Dorian was pacing in front of the window, reading a letter with a look of such obvious concern that Mahanon knew he’d be going over there even though thinking about it made his throat feel tight.

He was the Inquisitor and it was his job as leader to be sure those within his care were as well as possible.

“Anything interesting?” Mahanon asked in his most normal voice.

“A letter regarding Felix, Alexius’s son.” Dorian said, voice also entirely normal. “He went to the Magisterium. Stood on the Senate floor and told them of you. A glowing testimonial, I’m informed. No news on the reaction, but everyone back home is talking. Felix always was as good as his word.”

“Was?” Mahanon asked to be sure he was understanding correctly.

“He’s dead,” Dorian said, darker emotion peeking through the polished cadence of his usual speech. “The Blight caught up with him.”

“Are you alright?”

“He was ill and thus on borrowed time anyhow.” Dorian blustered almost hard enough to hide the catch in his voice.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t regret his death.”

“I know.” There was a sadness to the words and none of the anger Mahanon had feared. “Felix used to sneak me treats from the kitchens when I was working late in his father’s study. ‘Don’t get into trouble on my behalf,’ I’d tell him. ‘I like trouble,’ he’d say. Tevinter could use more mages like him, those who put the good of others above themselves.”

“You make it sound like he was a better person than you.” 

“What a mad thing to say, few people are better than I.”

Mahanon snorted.

“Very well, a better person clearly. Not nearly as handsome.” Dorian turned away and paced another step before turning back. “Thankfully Felix wasn’t the only decent sort kicking around Thedas.”

“Do your people have any mourning rituals you need to attend to?” Mahanon asked, something in his chest unclenching.

“Thank you, no.” Dorian said and walked away.

***

The routine had been working very well. Mother Giselle haunted the herb garden and Mahanon was simply always too busy to go there. It was a jolt to see her standing in the middle of the hall where he couldn’t avoid her. Over her shoulder, Mahanon saw Varric making an apologetic face.

“My Lord Inquisitor it is good of you to speak to me,” she said as if he could ignore her in front of all of Josephine’s important guests. “I have news regarding one of your… companions. The Tevinter.”

“What sort of news?” Mahanon asked warily.

“I have been in contact with his family, House Pavus, out of Qarinus. Are you familiar with them?”

“I know they’re important people in Tevinter. I know Dorian has little interest in returning home.” Mahanon raised his eyebrows. “I know humans don’t have Clans but I’ve gathered in the ordinary course of things his father or mother would be responsible for him as my Keeper is for me. Does his family want recompense for the duties he cannot perform at home while he helps us?”

“Ah, no. Nothing of that kind.” Mother Giselle looked down at him. “The family sent a letter describing the estrangement from their son and pleading for my aid. They’ve asked to arrange a meeting. Quietly, without telling him. They fear it’s the only way he’ll come. Since you seem to be on good terms with the young man, I’d hoped…”

Mahanon let her struggle for a beat longer than was strictly polite. “You hoped I’d trick him into meeting people he’s told me he’s not interested in meeting? Because I seem to have his trust? Is this a joke?”

“I feared you might take it this way.” Mother Giselle sighed loudly. “I know it begins in deceit but if he can reconcile with his parents… surely you can understand the importance of family.”

“I can and it’s not higher than trust.” Being family was not the same as being Clan. That shemlen confused the two so often explained much.

“The family has a retainer to meet the young man at the Redcliffe tavern to take him onward. If he truly does not wish this reunion, he can always end the matter there.” She handed him a letter.

***

In camp the morning after the reunion with Dorian’s father, Mahanon watched Dorian carefully. The rest of the camp was busy with breakfast as Dorian walked away from the main circle of tents and Mahanon followed him. “I’m sorry.”

“Whatever for?” Dorian asked, looking like he’d been pulled away from a heavy thought.

“I should have waited until later to ask for clarification. It wasn’t the proper moment.” Mahanon answered. “I just- We’ve spent the week with Varric and Solas and I enjoy their company. And they’re men.”

“I understand,” Dorian said more gently than Mahanon felt was deserved.

“I should know to hold my questions by now.”

“The question wasn’t the problem. It was a rather inopportune time to announce your sexual history.” Dorian paused. “Though the look on my father’s face might be worth it at some point.”

The weight of how little Mahanon knew about Dorian crushed his chest. If they had been raised as Clan, Mahanon would know what to do. He’d know whether a hand on his shoulder would be irritating or comforting. He’d know which words not to use and which ones would ease the lines between Dorian’s eyebrows. He’d know what would be patronizing and what would be reassuring.

“He says we’re alike. Too much pride. Once I would have been overjoyed to hear him say that. Now I’m not certain. I don’t know if I can forgive him.” Dorian kept his gaze firmly fixed on a tree to his left.

“What did he do?” Mahanon asked quietly.

“Out of desperation. I wouldn’t put on a show, marry the girl, keep everything unsavory private and locked away. Selfish, I suppose, not to want to spend my whole life screaming on the inside. He was going to do a blood ritual. Alter my mind. Make me… acceptable. I found out. I left.”

“Can blood magic actually do that?” Mahanon asked, horrified.

“Maybe. It could also have left me a drooling vegetable. It crushed me to think he found that absurd risk preferable to scandal. Part of me has always hoped he didn’t really want to go through with it. If he had, I can’t even imagine the person I would be now. I wouldn’t like that Dorian.”

Mahanon could almost hear his own words about the importance of being able to leave all over again. “Are you alright?” he asked in the fashion he’d observed among shemlen.

“No, not really,” Dorian said wearily and turned to face Mahanon. “Thank you for bringing me out there. It wasn’t what I expected but… it’s something. Maker knows what you must think of me now after that display.”

“I think you’re very brave,” Mahanon said honestly.

“Brave?” Dorian said in obvious surprise.

“If the Keeper had tried to do something like that to me, I probably would have let her rather than try living among strangers who dislike me on principle.”

Dorian huffed out a sound that was almost a laugh. “I went to study more with Alexius first. I didn’t run straight to the South. At any rate, we should get back to camp. I’m sure those horses are itching for the stables at Skyhold.”

***

Varric was correcting Cole on the proper way to hold cards for umpteenth time when the Inquisitor asked a question Varric had heard many times and never once heard it lead anywhere good.

“So, you’re a writer?”

“Yes, boss.”

“So, you’re… good with words and so forth?”

Varric sighed deeply. “Which word?”

“What does ‘strapping’ mean? As a compliment.”

“If we’re talking about who I think we’re talking about, it means love is blind.”

“So if I responded by telling him he was strapping too, that wouldn’t be strange?”

“That would be more accurate.”

“Oh.” The Inquisitor thought long enough to make Varric really dread where this was going. If this was a novel, it’d be some sort of farce. He was sure of it. “Is that why he said that only took eyes to know?”

“No. He said that because he’s a self-assured peacock.”

Cole watched them, a finger tracing a pattern on one of the cards in front of him.

“I said it was a good thing he had eyes.”

“I guess if he were expecting a master of seduction, you’ve set him straight.” Varric frowned. “So to speak.”

“He told me I had a nice pair of them.”

“He likes you back.” Varric told him.

“Oh good.” The Inquisitor visibly relaxed.

“He doesn’t think you’re stupid,” Cole said sharply.

“I’d rather hear that from him, thank you.” Mahanon said quickly.

Varric loudly cleared his throat. “Anything else or do I explain trumps to the Kid again?”

***

Somehow seeing Mother Giselle out of the garden never bode well. “Is something the matter?” he asked, coming up on Dorian and Mother Giselle squabbling loud enough he was sure Leliana was getting every word.

“It seems the Revered Mother is concerned about my ‘undue influence’ over you.” Dorian said mockingly.

“It is just concern. Your Worship, you must know how this looks.”

“You might need to spell it out, my dear.”

Mother Giselle ignored the glare Mahanon shot Dorian. “This man is of Tevinter. His presence at your side… the rumors alone…”

“Why is his presence at my side dangerous? Is it better if I stand in front?”

“And if that isn’t grist for the rumor mill...” Dorian muttered.

“So they can see I trust you at my back.” Mahanon snapped at him. “Alright, what are these rumors?”

“I… could not repeat them.” Mother Giselle said reluctantly.

“Repeat them? You’ve shared them before?” Mahanon crossed his arms.

“I… see. I meant no disrespect, Inquisitor, only to ask after this man’s intentions. If you feel he is without ulterior motive, then I humbly beg forgiveness of you both.” Mother Giselle made a small obeisance and left Mahanon watching her incredulously.

“I’m pretty sure I know someone here had an ulterior motive,” Mahanon grumbled.

“She meant well, if that’s of any concern.” Dorian told Mahanon.

“I think she might still be upset I gave you the letter instead of dragging you off to the tavern.” Mahanon shook his head.

“I don’t know if you’re aware but the assumption in some corners is that you and I are... intimate,” Dorian said, voice calm but with everything else about him slightly tucked in.

“Before I have a moment of inopportune sharing, is this about sex?”

“Erm, yes.”

“That’s better than ‘the Dalish and the Tevinter Imperium are about to ally and murder us all in our beds.’” 

“I wouldn’t have put it that way but yes, that’s true.”

“Should I be bothered?”

“I don’t know should you?”

Mahanon groaned. “Can you give me an answer that isn’t a question?”

“What sort of answer would you like?”

“A definitive one.” Dorian’s lips met Mahanon’s and his breath left, he melted into the physical contact hungrily. 

“Definitive enough for you?”

“Let’s try again to be sure.” Mahanon smiled with his entire body.


	3. Wicked Eyes, Wicked Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anything about this seems wrong, ignorant, or out of place, then I'd like to discuss it.

Mahanon had come to accept that he was never going to like Val Royeaux. The parts of it that weren’t manicured into an unnatural geometry of “pleasing” forms were filled with hungry people. The numerous statues of Andraste and Maferath were almost as disturbing as the large presence of clergy. How anyone found those costumes or that art agreeable to look at was beyond Mahanon.

It could use some wolf statues.

He looped the long way around the market. First the shop with the velveteen he needed for the tapestry requisition, then the place with the schematics Josephine had recommended, and then to the shop owned by the man Leliana had pointed out.

The merchant greeted him eagerly, bowing.

“What, is that why we’re here?” Dorian asked sharply. “How do you even know about the amulet? I hope you aren’t intending to help me get it back. I can do this myself.”

“I apologize but that won’t be possible,” the merchant said in a tone of voice that made Mahanon want to scrub himself thoroughly. “Do forgive me Inquisitor, but when I heard of your association with Monsieur Pavus, I could not resist. You see, the young man sold me a rather valuable amulet many months ago. Then he returned asking to buy it back. Why would I simply sell it? Not only is it useful, there are others who could offer me much more.”

“You loathsome little cretin! That’s why you were so stubborn.” Dorian took an angry step toward the merchant.

“There is no need for insults, monsieur,” the merchant said calmly enough that Mahanon wasn’t quite sure what was happening. “I am interested only in doing good business.”

“Don’t you sell things? Why not sell this?” Mahanon asked uncertainly. “That is what this place is for, isn’t it?”

“I am not a fence, monsieur. I only bought the amulet because of what it is.” The merchant replied as if that sentence’s meaning should be obvious to anyone. “I do business in the Imperium. Having a birthright, even one not your own, is most useful in select situations.”

“Huh,” Dorian grunted. “He’s got the right of it there.”

“That’s why I gave the young man so much. If he relinquished it, how is it my doing?” 

“What’s the difference between a fence and a merchant? Do fences normally sell things? I thought having no mouths or eyes would make that difficult. Or hands. Do merchants usually have wares they don’t wish to sell or is this specific to Val Royeaux?” Mahanon asked. “Is this amulet shaped like a nug by any chance?”

“No,” Dorian said, three parts angry to one part amused.

“I only wish equitable recompense,” the merchant said firmly.

“Which means what?” Mahanon asked, keeping his tone curious rather than plaintive. 

“The League de Celestine is an organization of wealthy noblemen in Orlais. I would join but I lack the lineage. If someone like you applied pressure, they would admit me. That would be worth the return of the amulet.” The merchant persevered.

“What does a fence even do with money? Decorate the posts?” Mahanon asked.

“He’s not joking. You may as well tell him,” Dorian said, snorting.

“I only meant that I have stock I specialize in and do not wish to sell outside of that market.”

“We’re in a market,” Mahanon pointed out. “If you sell it here, you’re not outside of it.”

“This is not the type of item I wish to sell,” the merchant said in a voice that was still oily but beginning to show some strain.

Mahanon turned to Dorian. “Is this supposed to make sense?”

Dorian sighed. “I got myself into this. I’ll get myself out.”

“Perhaps you should accept your friend’s help, monsieur.”

“Kaffas! I know what you think and he’s not my friend! He’s-”

Mahanon flinched and gave Dorian a hurt look.

Dorian deflated and shook his head. “Never mind what he is,” Dorian said wearily.

“As you desire,” the merchant said. “Even so, that is the price. I shall accept no other.”

Mahanon looked from Dorian to the merchant. “Then it seems we may as well be on our way. Good fortune to you.”

***

“Even with help, I can’t do this.” Mahanon said, dumping the pile of paperwork on Cullen’s desk. “Can you tell me the three most important things I should know from this?”

Cullen gave him and the tower of paper a dubious look. “Has Josephine been giving you the entire contracts?”

“I think so? It’s hard to tell after the fifth page or so. Even with the reader. Which, thank you, in case I hadn’t said.” Mahanon drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk. “I… do not like asking for help.”

“Would never have noticed,” Cullen muttered, shuffling through the reports. “This one is important. No, this is ridiculous. No one needs that. Oh…” He picked up a discarded report. “Someone needs to organize this. This is for the Fallow Mire.”

Mahanon made a frustrated sound deep in his throat.

“Reports on the undead rising in Crestwood. A dossier on Corporal Vale. How have you been deciding what gets read?”

“I hand them something, they read it.”

Cullen gave him an assessing look.

“Before I went to the Conclave I’d never seen this much paper in one place before,” Mahanon grumbled. “I’m not a mage. I do not understand this fascination with small ink marks.”

Grunting noncommittally, Cullen pulled out a thick sheaf that, sure enough, was a complete contract negotiated by Josephine.

“I don’t know why you let me win that chess game,” Mahanon said, glaring all the way up at Cullen.

“We were having a pleasant conversation. I didn’t want to end it by-”

“Never mind,” Mahanon said, his shoulders drooping as he hunched in on himself.

“The three most important documents are on top,” Cullen said carefully. “I will discuss how to better organize your flow of information with Leliana and Josephine. Is there anything else, Inquisitor?”

“No. Thank you.” Mahanon took a deep breath. “I could not ask for a better commander of my troops.”

***

“We finally have word from Wycome,” Leliana told Mahanon. “It took my people multiple attempts and they cannot attempt the city itself. It seems Duke Antoine of Wycome is publicly our ally but in secret he hired the so-called “bandits” who attacked your Clan. No word yet as to why.”

Mahanon gripped the edge of the war table hard enough to turn his knuckles white and clenched his jaw hard.

“It will be some time before we can attempt anything further.” Leliana said calmly.

Mahanon nodded, a short jerk of his head and brought one hand up to touch his knife scar. He realized no one was going to say anything and cleared his throat. “The merchant who wants into the League de Celestine, can that be done?”

“Yes, your worship.”

“Good. Let’s do that.”

***

Mahanon was bracing himself before he even set eyes on Dorian. The amulet weighed heavy in his hand as he climbed the stairs. So much fuss for something so small but he remembered the weight of the knives he’d lost at the Conclave. “I…,” he trailed off in front of Dorian. Shamefaced, he held out the amulet. The chain was still warm from his hand when Dorian took it.

“Now I’m indebted to you,” Dorian said in a pained voice. “I never wanted this.”

“I know,” Mahanon said in a small voice.

Dorian cradled the amulet gently in his hand. “This was my problem to deal with.”

“He wasn’t going to give it back. Sooner or later he was going to return to Tevinter with it.” Mahanon didn’t look up from his feet.

Sighing, Dorian started pacing. “Someone intelligent would cozy up to the Inquisitor if they could. It’d be foolish not to. He can open doors. Get you whatever you want. Shower you with gifts and power. That’s what they’ll say. I’m the magister who’s using you.”

“I don’t care about them,” Mahanon said, slowly lifting his head. “Do you think you’re using me?”

Dorian drew his head back slightly. “I am apparently an ass at accepting gifts. Thank you.”

Mahanon took a step forward and found himself kissing Dorian. He leaned in on tiptoe, wrapping arm around Dorian for balance. When Dorian pulled away, he stared breathlessly for a moment, trying to determine exactly what color Dorian’s eyes were.

“I’m going to stop before I say something syrupy. I will repay you. Somehow.” Dorian said, withdrawing.

***

Dorian found Mahanon in his rooms after the Inquisitor’s standing appointment with Josephine. He had his back to the stairs in an act of either confidence or arrogance, giving Dorian a good view of his back. “So,” Dorian said, drawing the vowel out. He looked at the Inquisitor’s face, trying not to read in too many hope or fear driven observations as the Inquisitor rose and put his hands on his hips. “It’s all very nice this flirting business but I am not a nice man. So here is my proposal, we dispense with the chit chat and move on to something more primal. It’ll set tongues wagging, of course. Not that they aren’t already wagging.” He began circling the Inquisitor, close enough to feel the other man’s body heat. “I suppose it really depends. How bad does the Inquisitor want to be?” he finished, his breath whispering by the point of Mahanon’s ear.

Mahanon turned toward Dorian and cupped Dorian’s face with a hand calloused with knife practice. He kissed Dorian, pulling their mouths closer together and applying the edge of his teeth to Dorian’s lower lip.

What happened next showed Dorian that Mahanon hadn’t been lying, he’d done this before. He wasn’t the most practiced bed mate Dorian had enjoyed but he was attentive and had a few ideas of his own to contribute. Dorian drank in every sensation from the misplaced knee as they tried to settle on the bed to Mahanon’s laugh following his sprawl to the small sound of Mahanon’s callouses against the sheets to the feel of his lips kissing the spot he’d accidentally hit Dorian. The smell of the harsh soap the Inquisitor bathed with and the taste of his mouth. The expression in his brandy colored eyes when Dorian finally had his pants off. The feel of skin against skin and the timbre of Mahanon’s moaning. The discovery that hands that were quick and clever with knives were quick and clever with other things. The way the Inquisitor collapsed against him after it was done and smiled like the sun breaking free of a persistent cloud of confusion and frustration.

He hoarded each thing to remember later as he told himself this would be enough. Even if the Inquisitor was uninterested in continuing their- he could make this be enough. And then the Inquisitor was curled up next to him, warm and softly smiling. Dorian could see all the scars up close; the badly healed one on the right, the straight thin line of a knife on the left, the trailing scars of claws that crossed through his right eyebrow and gathered under his eyes, and the jagged remains of pressure cuts on either side of his mouth. Up close the tattoo wasn’t black, it was a very dark green. His expression was relaxed and guileless as he lifted a hand to run his finger over the slope of Dorian’s nose.

Suddenly the moment constricted Dorian’s breathing. It felt too much like hope. Too much like the way he had fantasized such encounters ending when he was left alone with the memory of another man’s hands…

Extricating himself from the bed, Dorian observed the room more closely until the choking feeling settled down into mere butterflies. Giving the Inquisitor an excellent view of his posterior was an additional side benefit. “I like your quarters,” Dorian said almost before he realized he was talking.

“The windows are nice,” Mahanon agreed, his voice rich with the Dales.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” Dorian said, turning to look over his shoulder. “I’m not suggesting we venture into mutual domesticity. I just like your appointments.” He sat on the edge of the bed, looking at Mahanon’s narrow chest and bony legs instead of his face. “Not that I couldn’t suggest some changes. Your taste is a little… austere.”

“Almost like I’m used to packing everything up and leaving five minutes ahead of the militia.” Mahanon agreed, sitting up. “Change whatever makes you feel more comfortable.”

“I’m curious where this goes, you and I.” Dorian said reluctantly. He needed an answer but just in case, it would be nice to hold on to the fantasy a little longer. “We’ve had fun. Perfectly reasonable to leave it here, get on with the business of killing archdemons and such….” He ran out of words.

“I’m not sure I understand,” Mahanon said, his expression cloudy once more. 

“It’s a simple question!” Dorian said more sharply than he intended.

“I don’t know what you’re offering,” Mahanon said a little louder. “What would we be doing that would interfere with killing the archdemon?”

“Nothing! That’s not-”

“Is this to do with why you said you weren’t my friend?” Mahanon drew his knees up and locked his arms around them.

“Am I just your friend then?”

“No! You’re my friend I want to have sex with and sometimes breakfast too. And talk history with and-” Mahanon growled in frustration.

“Do you have sex with many of your friends?” Dorian asked more warily.

“No. Practically none. And I never have sex with my enemies.”

“Where I come from, sex between two men is about pleasure. It’s accepted but taken no further. You learn not to hope for more. you’d be foolish to.” Dorian admitted, unable to keep his sadness from bleeding through his attempts not to push for the answer he thought he might be hearing.

“Where I come from,” Mahanon said, relaxing his shoulders and unlocking his sharp elbows. “We know each other from childhood through all our lives. Some marry outside their Clan or get traded to a new Clan where they find a spouse. But mostly we have years to learn each other and the Elders have years to watch for signs of the people we’ll be and steer us toward those who are compatible. Most of us know who we’re going to bond ourselves to before we earn our vallaslin. I turned out to be the odd one out.” He touched Dorian’s shoulder gently. “When the Clans have a Meet, the rules are different. We know we’ll only know each other briefly unless we wish to abandon our Clan.

I have done that. I would not- I would never do this with you and then continue as if it were a Meet.” Mahanon said, turning the touch into a grip. “I tried it. It was pleasant. It’s not my preference. If it’s yours-”

“It’s not,” Dorian said with less grace than he would have wished.

“I’ve never had to do this on my own before,” Mahanon said.

“I’ve never done this before at all. I don’t even know what this would look like.” Dorian admitted now that rejection wasn’t hanging in the air.

“Like friendship and sex with additional snoring and flatulence.” Mahanon said, taking Dorian’s hand in his own.

“It sounds so appealing when you put it that way,” Dorian said, unable to hold back a smile.

“Doesn’t it though?” Mahanon smiled back, caressing the inside of Dorian’s wrist with his thumb.

“Care to inquisit me again?” Dorian asked, warmth flooding through him. “I’ll be more specific in my instructions.”

Mahanon tenderly kissed Dorian again as an answer.

***

Mahanon exited the carriage in Halamshiral and tried to steady the buzzing of his nerves. He was in the heart of where the remains of the Elvhenan had tried to recapture the lost glory of the Empire. The place the Orlesians had taken back and now housed the reigning monarch’s Winter Palace. A place where the elves his people had failed had rioted and been put down with chevaliers who were far better fed and equipped than anything the locals could muster.

The unfairness of it ached like a wound.

He put on the expression Ambassador Montilyet, Leliana, and Madame Vivienne had been drilling him on and went to greet the Orlesians. It didn’t matter if he hoped their entire empire would choke on his people’s blood. It didn’t matter if he would happily slit the throat of the Grand Duke himself for his part in the maneuvers and the Empress for hers. Not only would such things need to wait until after Corypheus was removed from the world, it couldn’t be done by him. He was the Inquisitor and beyond the reach of most hands that would strike him down. The majority of his people were in slums, alienages, and the margins of the woods. No help would come to them and they would be easy targets for shemlen who wanted to avenge noble human blood.

Whatever satisfaction he could gain could never be balanced by the gallons of blood that would result.

Mahanon had been briefed, prepared, taught, and given the grudging approval of those who knew this battlefield better than he. He was as ready as he could be.

_”You want me to avoid admitting I know anything and avoid admitting I don’t know anything. You want me to be humorous but not lewd, persistent but not rude, and helpful but uncommunicative.” Mahanon had said at the final briefing. “How about I pretend to be Dorian?”_

_Dorian had squawked indignantly from the doorway but Josephine had said, “That would be suitable.”_

The gates opened and Mahanon got his first good look at the party. Masks flashed everywhere, metals and porcelain. Josephine had found it odd that he recognized masks more readily than the faces she had shown him. Maybe he should have told her that faces without vallaslin seemed to be missing depth in a way he was getting better at compensating for but still struggled with on occasion. The masks served a similar purpose to the vallaslin and were therefore easier to recognize.

The grating melody of a woodwind instrument floated across the lawn as Mahanon greeted Grand Duke Gaspard and committed to nothing the chevalier said. He was feeling reasonably like he had some command of the situation when a woman’s voice cut through the crowd noise.

“Rabbit! Help me look for my ring!” she called.

Mahanon felt like he was very far away as he listened to her babble about how dreadfully important her bauble was and why she couldn’t be seen at the Ball without it. It was almost as if he watched himself hunt for her ring as if he were the servant she mistook him for. His pulse throbbed in his temples as he handed her the ring and he heard the nobles standing near them murmur with approval.

The worst that could happen to him was that he would be removed from the party. The worst that would befall the world was that Corypheus would assassinate Celene and everyone would ask why the Inquisition had not prevented it. The world would have proof that no matter how high one of the Dalish rose, he was still nothing better than a violent brute who couldn’t control his temper in the face of a harmless little word.

_”What’s the plan, boss?” Varric had asked._

_“I was thinking we could ask your mage friend for architectural tips,” Mahanon had answered._

_“That’s not funny.” Varric had said angrily._

_“It’s a little funny.”_

_“No!”_

_“Ir abelas,” Mahanon had sighed. “It’s funnier than what I want to do. May the Dread Wolf take them all.”_

Mahanon circulated through the balconies and past the fountain, taking his time. Appearing rushed might undermine his position and the assassins were unlikely to adjust things for his presence yet. Many of the people around him still thought he was staff. By the time he found Ambassador Montilyet, the roaring in his ears had faded to an acidic burn in the back of his throat.

“Inquisitor, a moment of your time, please?” she said almost before the crash of the gate had faded. “I must warn you before you go inside. How you speak to the court is a matter of life and death. It is no simple matter of etiquette and protocol. Every word, every gesture, is measured and evaluated for weakness.”

“Understood,” Mahanon said, feeling like the nerves in his face had been cut.

“The Game is like Wicked Grace played to the death. you must never reveal your cards. When you meet the Empress, the eyes of the entire court will be upon you.” Josephine said.

“We should get going,” Mahanon said, his voice feeling flatter than usual.

“Andraste watch over us all,” Josephine murmured, filing in behind Mahanon as he strode down the walk.

Presenting himself to the Empress, Mahanon gritted his teeth until his entire jaw ached. From the vestibule onward he felt like he was being repeatedly punched in the face by perfume. By the time he was looking up and up at the blue gowned woman who had ordered so many of his people dead, Mahanon felt like his face was made of wood.

He felt that sense of drifting, waiting for the moment to strike that he felt in battle as the Empress greeted the usurper. Their words were a buzz in his ears like distant bees waiting to sting if he gave them a moment. It wasn’t long before the Grand Duke gave the empress a deep, mocking bow and left Mahanon alone before the most important shemlen in Orlais.

“Lord Inquisitor, we welcome you to the Winter Palace,” Celene said. “Allow us to present our cousin, the Grand Duchess of Lydes, without whom this gathering would never have been possible.”

“What an unexpected pleasure. I was not aware the Inquisition would be part of our festivities. We will certainly speak later, Inquisitor.” Grand Duchess Florianne said before swishing away in her long skirts.

“Your arrival at Court is like a cool wind on a summer’s day,” Celene Valmont told him.

Mahanon wondered if the reversal of the seasons was supposed to be a clue for something. A cool wind in the Winter Palace would simply be drafty. “I am delighted to be here, Your Majesty,” he lied. The colors and edges in the room seemed sharper than a moment before.

“We have heard much of your exploits, Inquisitor. They have made grand tales for long evenings.” 

That was when Mahanon decided he was done looking for secret symbolism from her. “Grand” might be a reference to the Grand Duke or it could just be her deciding to insult him. Or praise him. Maybe she thought one of the Dalish would want to be spoken of by the Empress of Orlais.

“How do you find Halamshiral?”

“I cannot do its beauty justice,” Mahanon said. He could never insult Halamshiral.

“We hope you will find time to take in some of its beauties. Feel free to enjoy the pleasures of the ballroom, Inquisitor. We look forward to watching you dance.”

Which could mean anything or nothing. He bowed and left. 

Leliana caught up to him in the vestibule, gave him a new target, and set him loose on the crowd. Seeing his people in attendance merely to fetch food and drinks caused the sick sensation in his gut to intensify. A man with one of the cheaper masks moved the woman beside him out of Mahanon’s path and glared.

“You going to be able to hold it together, boss?” The Iron Bull asked when Mahanon located him in the crowd.

“I’m fine,” Mahanon said mildly. “Absolutely perfect.”

“Yeah, well, any veteran knows the look you’ve got on your face.” The Iron Bull glanced around. “Some of them might respect it but be careful when it comes to pushing back the next person to push you. Look like that and some of them won’t be able to resist seeing if they can make you snap.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mahanon said, hearing himself at a distance.

“And if you kill some punk here, it might jeopardize the mission.”

“I know what’s at stake.”

“Yeah, I guess you do. Take care, boss.”

Mahanon barely heard him as he went to talk to one of the servants. They looked frightened but not of him which was getting to be a change for the evening.

“Inquisitor Lavellan, don’t head into the servants’ wing if you value your neck. Not one elf’s gone in there tonight and come out again.” The first servant said.

“Our man was supposed to make a pickup in the garden hours ago. Bastard’s likely dead by now.” The second spoke up.

Mahanon did not recoil in disgust from the man who blamed some Philippe for having sex with an elf instead of doing his duty. He calmly sympathized with the man and walked out to the garden. At least outside there was more breeze to dilute the cloying stench of perfume. That it gave the Empress’s ladies-in-waiting an opportunity to corner him and unsubtly offer allegiance in exchange for his help against the usurper made him want to bang his head against the marble pillars. But he didn’t laugh at them or swear or make a commitment one way or the other.

He found Dorian in the garden and tried to pretend this was entirely normal, he was entirely normal. “Noticed anything interesting?’

“Other than an overabundance of lavender perfume? No, nothing extraordinary.” Dorian shook his head.

“Is that what that is? Never wear it.”

“Don’t worry, I have taste.”

“I don’t see how anyone else does after this much exposure.” He was starting to feel more like himself. “Maybe that explains everything.” A few comments about Tevinter and Dorian’s mother and Mahanon was ready to deal with Orlesians again. But first, “Don’t wear yourself out mingling. I expect a dance before this is over.”

“Dancing with the evil magister, in full view of every noble in Orlais? How shocking.”

“They’ll live.”

“You say that now. If you can find me ten silk scarfs, I’ve got a dance that can really shock them.” 

“Will that offer still be open when we get back to Skyhold?”

“That depends on how nice you are to me,” Dorian said.

“How about I start by asking you to be my lookout while I climb that trellis,” Mahanon said, tilting his head toward the end of the garden.

Dorian gave the trellis the stink eye and groaned. “Very well.”

The library was the first thing about the Winter Palace to impress Mahanon. He wasn’t enamored with reading but the sheer amount of knowledge represented by the shelves upon shelves of books had his attention. Keeper Istimaethoriel would kill men to get a glimpse at these books. In a halting way he even recognized some of them.

His stomach soured again as he pulled one down and saw it was a study of his religion. Orlesians twisting his people’s words to suit the Chantry. With a growl he slammed the book shut.

“Hand in my hair, ‘Tried to run.’” Cole’s voice floated out from behind a bookcase. “‘Rabbits gonna rabbit.’ His breath smells like onions and beer. Cold metal pressed against my face.”

“How are you enjoying the party, Cole?” Mahanon asked, voice strained.

“It’s confusing. So many little hurts, wanting to hurt.” Cole said sadly. “You’re hurting.”

“We’ll get back to Skyhold and it won’t be as intense.” Mahanon told him gently.

“He was afraid and angry. It wasn’t you he wanted to hurt.”

“Cole, I need to focus now.” Mahanon moved over to one of the tables and picked up some interesting looking papers to take to Leliana. “Later.” He walked back to one of the locked doors and picked it. Inside were a set of the elven artifacts of the type Solas had shown him how to use to strengthen the Veil.

The sound of the bells clanging made Mahanon realize he was making a high-pitched whining noise while Cole stared at him, wide-eyed.

Fumbling, Mahanon tried to turn the device on. Nothing happened. He tried one more time before jerking back like the artifact was a snake.

“She was curious. She wanted to know all about the elves.” Cole told him. “It’s her country and she wants to know its history, save it from the elves who are dying out. How much knowledge has died because they wouldn’t share?”

“I need to get back to the ballroom,” Mahanon choked out and fled. He was almost back to Leliana and the business at hand when he heard the swish of a woman’s skirts behind him.

“Well, well, what have we here?” The woman said, boots clicking on the cold stone floor. “the leader of the new Inquisition, fabled Herald of the faith. Delivered from the Fade by the hand of blessed Andraste herself,” the woman put her hands on her hips. “What could bring such an exalted creature here to the Imperial Court, I wonder? Do even you know?”

“We may never know,” Mahanon rasped. “The Creators’ touch is gone from the world but who knows what else waits its chance?”

“A daring answer within these walls,” the dark haired woman told him. “I am Morrigan. Some call me adviser to Empress Celene on matters of the arcane. You have been very busy this evening, hunting in every dark corner of the Palace. Perhaps you and I hunt the same prey?”

“I have no idea unless you tell me whom you seek.” Mahanon said wearily.

“Recently I found, and killed, an unwelcome guest within these very halls. An agent of Tevinter.” Morrigan said, leading Mahanon through the vestibule. “So i offer you this, Inquisitor: a key found on the Tevinter’s body. Where it leads, I cannot say. Yet if Celene is in danger, I cannot leave her side long enough to search. You can.”

“I have an idea,” Mahanon said, pocketing the key.

“Proceed with caution, Inquisitor. Enemies abound, and not all of them aligned with Tevinter. What comes next will be most exciting.” Morrigan left him in front of the doors to the ballroom.

Mahanon continued into the ballroom and found his advisors one by one, saving Leliana for last. His conversation with Josephine and Yvette Montilyet left him wondering if “plays with her dolls” was slang for something unwholesome. Talking with Cullen was easier but the crowd around him made Mahanon uneasy.

Reaching Leliana, Mahanon could almost feel his temper giving way like dirt crumbling around a hole. “Did you see what that man did to the Commander?”

“Nothing life threatening,” Leliana said, appearing almost happy for the first time since Mahanon had met her.

“He touched him when the Commander had made it very clear he was uninterested. How do we make that stop?”

“We don’t.”

“We just let people touch our people with no repercussions?”

“It was harmless flirtation.”

“Make it stop or I will challenge the man to a duel myself.” Mahanon said in a vicious undertone. “Touching is unacceptable. I don’t care if it’s just a pinch.”

“I… will see what I can do, Inquisitor. Was there anything else.”

Mahanon took a steadying breath, recited the gossip he’d overheard, and practically shoved the more interesting looking reading material into Leliana’s hands. “I’ll be investigating the servants’ wing,” he growled.

Since he couldn’t investigate alone, Mahanon went and rounded up the three most readily available members of his team. Dorian was still being pointedly shunned, Cassandra had successfully glared all would be conversation partners into keeping their distance, and Cole felt Mahanon wanting his presence. 

Closing the door between himself and the party, Mahanon found his knees wobbly with released tension. He looked at the three of them and whispered, “Thank you.”

The gardens were a nightmare of unnatural landscaping filled with almost enough Venatori to make him feel like himself by the time he found Ambassador Briala. He only had to circle the courtyard three times before he saw the entrance to the area he wanted, the curve of laid stone defying his land sense.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Briala said, striding through the carnage Mahanon had left strewn behind him. “Inquisitor Lavellan, slumming in the servants’ quarters with the rest of your people for once. We haven’t been properly introduced, have we? I’m Ambassador Briala.”

“I was hoping to get a moment of your time,” Mahanon said, not even trying to smile. “I would appreciate your insights into what would most benefit the rest of my people.”

“An interesting proposition,” Briala said coyly, backing toward the balcony. “You’ve cleaned this place out. It will take a month to get all the Tevinter blood off the marble. I came down to save or avenge my people but you’ve beaten me to it. So… the Council of Heralds’ emissary in the courtyard, that’s not your work is it?”

“I’m not here for Orlesians. Tonight. The Venatori are my sole targets, however tempting it may be to decide otherwise.”

“I believe you,” Briala said, her mask hiding none of her guile. “You think we can ally even though I am Orlesian?”

“I think we can do better than the streets of Halamshiral running red with elven blood.”

“Orlesian elven blood.”

“Even so, they are my people.” Mahanon spread his hands.

“An unusual stance for one of the Dalish.”

“Even we are not immune to factionalizing.” Mahanon said, a heaviness in his chest.

“I see. Depending on how tonight goes, we may be able to make use of one another.” Briala said and leapt off the balcony.

Turning away, Mahanon rubbed his eyes vigorously. His fingers fell to touching the knife scar again and he sighed.

“Is there no one here who is not corrupt?” Cassandra asked, sounding almost as frustrated as Mahanon felt.

Dorian gushed in his falsely bright voice about how this was reminding him of home.

“Spying first, then back to the ballroom,” Mahanon said, touching Dorian’s hand in passing.

Mahanon was certainly feeling like he’d seen all the shemlen he needed to see by the time he reached the ballroom with his pockets full of paper and an elven locket.

“Inquisitor Lavellan,” Grand Duchess Florianne said, catching him on his way to talk to Leliana. “We met briefly, I am Grand Duchess Florianne de Chalons. Welcome to my party.”

Tired past the point of being frightened or angry, Mahanon nodded. “Is there something I can do for you, your grace?”

“Indeed you can,” the Grand Duchess said. “I believe tonight you and I are both concerned by the actions of… a certain person. Come, dance with me. Spies will not hear us on the dance floor.”

Mahanon straightened his back and offered his arm. “Very well. Shall we dance, your grace?” Making a fuss could only work against him. That he would rather dance with a cave spider wasn’t the point. He needed to find new work.

“Have the Dalish gained a sudden passion for politics?” the Grand Duchess asked as they reached the dance floor. “What do you know about our civil war?”

“I know that presently there are Orlesian troops fighting out this civil war in the area your people call the Exalted Plains. It’s a place of great meaning to my people.” Mahanon said as civilly as if Madame Vivienne were listening instead of watching.

“I should not be surprised to find the empire is the center of everyone’s world,” she responded in a tone that dared Mahanon to tell her she was wrong or get angry. “It took great effort to arrange tonight’s negotiations. Yet one party would use this occasion for blackest treason. The security of the empire is at stake. Neither one of us wishes to see it fall.”

“Is that what we want?” Mahanon asked, his mind more on executing the steps he’d practiced in Skyhold.

“I hope we are of one mind on this.” 

“Then I suppose I must oblige. You are the host of the party, after all.” He placed his hand on her arm as he had with Josephine.

“I know you arrived here as a guest of my brother, Gaspard, and have been seen everywhere in the Palace. You are a curiosity to many, Inquisitor… and a matter of concern to some.”

“I’m well aware.” Mahanon said, going through the turn across the dance floor without stepping on anyone’s skirts.

She peered at him as if she were expecting something else but the look quickly vanished. “This evening is of great importance, Inquisitor. I wonder what role you will play in it. Do you even yet know who is friend and who is foe? Who in the court can be trusted?”

“I thought the rules of the Game meant I’m not to answer that question,” Mahanon said.

“Even that is an answer.”

“Then I have answered your question.”

“In the Winter Palace, everyone is alone,” she remarked. “It cannot have escaped your notice that certain parties are engaged in dangerous machinations tonight.”

“That is certainly one way to describe it,” Mahanon said, again feeling success at avoiding stepping on anything fragile. He realized they were alone on the floor when he dipped her.

“You have little time,” she murmured under the approval of the crowd. “The attack will come soon. You must stop Gaspard before he strikes. In the Royal Wing Garden, you will find the captain of my brother’s mercenaries. He knows all Gaspard’s secrets. I’m sure you can persuade him to be forthcoming.”

Mahanon bowed to her. “We’ll see.” He made his escape with as much dignity as he could find. He suspected it wouldn’t take long for his advisers to find him so he aimlessly drifted through the crowd, listening to Orlesians and continuing to avoid stepping on frothy confections of lace and velvet. Some of Madame Vivienne’s outfits made more sense against this backdrop. She certainly looked more imposing than nine of ten nobles present. He missed Josephine’s first words but the shine in her eyes was unmistakable so he smiled and nodded.

“The Grand Duchess claims her brother is the traitor and gave me a remote location to investigate,” Mahanon said as his advisers crowded around.

“You think it’s a trap,” Cullen said.

“She’s Orlesian. Isn’t this a little visible?”

“You just danced with one of the highest ranking nobles in Orlais,” Leliana said severely. “It would be suspicious if we didn’t come straight away to hear the gossip.”

It didn’t take very long at all for them to fall back to squabbling as they had in the Frostbacks. The only surprise was that Leliana started advocating allowing the Empress’s assassination.

“I can’t do that!” Mahanon said aghast.

“Listen to me closely, Inquisitor-”

“No. I will not be involved in deposing the ruling monarch of Orlais. It’s bad enough her troops are in the Dirth-”

“Corypheus wants chaos-”

“Mythal’enaste! I said no.”

“Leliana. Inquisitor. We don’t have to decide now.” Josephine interjected. “I am with the Inquisitor on this. Transition to Gaspard could also provide the chaos Corypheus seeks.”

“I’m going to go walk into another trap,” Mahanon said and walked out of the ballroom. He didn’t proceed straight to rounding up a team. He located Solas where he was leaning against a wall and watching the crowd with interest.

“I found some of the elven artifacts but they won’t activate,” Mahanon said.

Solas’s expression fell. “They must have been damaged. I do not sense them.”

“I thought that might be it.” He stuck his hand in his pocket and realized he hadn’t dropped off his blackmail material. “I apologize for bringing it up. Enjoy the party.”

Pointedly ignoring his advisers, Mahanon went out to talk to Ambassador Briala. “I think I may have found something of yours.” He pulled the locket out.

“Let me see that! She kept this? If Gaspard found out- It could have ruined her!” Briala said, snatching the locket from his hand.

“So the rumors are true, then?” Mahanon asked.

She glared at him from behind her mask. “I’ve heard rumors about you and the magister.”

“I suspect the only thing untrue about them is that he is not a magister.” Mahanon said calmly. “As he will inform everyone at length at the slightest provocation. So please, don’t.”

Briala paused and Mahanon could watch her rebuilding her public face. “I thought your people-”

“Oh, I know the opinion the Dalish have of my choices. I think you know the opinion yours have too.” Mahanon folded his arms and leaned back on his heels. “Especially after Halamshiral.”

“You are correct. You say you want to work together?” Briala asked, drawing herself up.

“It benefits neither of us if Empress Celene is assassinated. People wouldn’t believe we weren’t involved. Is reconciliation possible?”

Looking at the locket in her hand, Briala sighed. “If she wishes it.” Her eyes turned back to his face. “You are unlike many of the Dalish I have met. You haven’t called me shemlen once.”

“My Clan believes in attempting a better future for all elves whether that means holding on to lore, accepting those who can no longer stand the alienages, or attending shemlen parties in fancy dress.”

She snorted softly and put the locket in a pocket. “I think we may be allies.”

That was the last high point of the Ball until his confrontation with the Grand Duchess. Mahanon could never remember afterward exactly what he said to the Empress but he managed not to spit at her so it couldn’t have been all bad. He was also left with a vague memory of discussing shoes with Leliana for some reason.

When he saw the Grand Duchess with her brother across the ballroom, Mahanon knew he still wasn’t going to risk fighting with her in front of the guards, no matter how much backup he had. He was Dalish and she Orlesian. He’d be lucky if the guard didn’t decide to gut elves first and ask questions later.

“Thank the Maker you’re back.” Cullen said, crashing to a halt in front of Mahanon. “The Empress will begin her speech soon. What should we do?”

“What we came here to do,” Mahanon said and strode forward, making eye contact with Grand Duchess Florianne. “A moment of your time, your grace?”

“Inquisitor,” the Orlesian said, turning. 

“I’m afraid I have a complaint about your hospitality, my host.” Mahanon took the stairs deliberately, weight on the balls of his feet in case she lashed out.

Backing away faster than was strictly dignified, Florianne shook her head. “I apologize for any perceived slight, Inquisitor.”

“I seem to recall you saying, ‘All I need is to keep you out of the ballroom long enough to strike.’ I am hurt that you wouldn’t want my attendance at the climax of the evening.” Mahanon paused to give her a chance to respond before pushing forward. “When your archers attempted to kill me in the garden, I felt rather unwelcome. It seems your welcome is so easily withdrawn you even framed your brother for murder. One of the Council’s own emissaries, no less. This party gathers all your enemies; the empress, your brother, and the Council of Heralds in one place. What a coincidence.”

“This is very entertaining but you do not imagine anyone believes you?” Florianne placed an insulting amount of weight on the pronoun.

“That would be a matter for a judge to decide, cousin.” Celene’s voice rang with finality.

“Gaspard?” Florianne turned hopefully to her brother. “You cannot believe this. You know I would never-”

Mahanon watched Florianne’s eyes when Gaspard turned away and recognized her hatred as a match for his. That was.. interesting. “You lost this fight ages ago,” he said with more sadness than satisfaction. He turned his attention upward to the empress. “Your Majesty, I believe we should speak in private.”

By the time Morrigan found Mahanon on a balcony, gulping air not entirely saturated with perfume, he was weary clear to his bones. Marquise Briala and Empress Celene were allies and the Dales were once again being administered by an elf. He could be satisfied with that.

“The Orlesian nobility make drunken toasts to your victory, and yet you are not present to hear them?” Morrigan sounded amused rather than offended.

“Headache,” Mahanon said simply. “But I am pleased to see you. Your help was invaluable.”

“Then I have happy news, as you shall be seeing a great deal more of me. By Imperial decree, I have been named liaison to the Inquisition. Celene wishes to offer you any and all aid- including mine. congratulations.” Morrigan said grandly.

“I welcome all who wish to help,” Mahanon answered.

“A most gracious response.” Morrigan smiled at him. “I shall see you at Skyhold.” She turned and left.

Mahanon recognized Dorian’s footsteps immediately. “There was an ancient dowager looking for you, said she had twelve daughters. I told her you’d left already. You can thank me later or now. But you look lost in thought. Something on your mind?”

“I’m just worn out. Tonight had been… very long.” Mahanon said, leaning in toward Dorian. Sadly, he stank like the party they’d been stewing in for hours. Mahanon wrinkled his nose and put his hand next Dorian’s on the rail.

“You won!” Dorian said, laughing. “You saved the day. Literally, the day is saved. You should be celebrating! Enjoy yourself while you can.” He paused. “What you need is a distraction. I have just the thing, let’s dance.” He offered Mahanon a gloved hand.

“Took you long enough to ask,” Mahanon said, following Dorian’s lead.

“Thank goodness one of us has a little initiative.” Dorian smiled, looking pleased with himself.

***

“Inquisitor!” Cullen called across the hall at Skyhold.

Mahanon paused, one hand on the door that led down to the lower levels of the Keep, and waited for Cullen to catch up.

“Leliana said you made her… interfere between myself and the…”

“Yes.” Mahanon said curtly.

“It wasn’t necessary.”

“It was.”

“I can deal with one-”

“You are a high ranking member of the Inquisition. You had made it clear to the _gentleman_ that you were uninterested and he continued to press his suit. That absolutely requires a response.” Mahanon glared at his commander. “That he touched you without your permission and against your express desire is unacceptable. To let it go would reflect poorly on the Inquisition. If Leliana disagrees, that’s her problem.”

“Inquisitor!” Josephine shouted. “Wonderful news from the Ball-”

Mahanon opened the door and dashed down the stairs.

“Let him go,” The Iron Bull’s voice carried through the door. “He’ll be useless at planning for a while.”

***

Dorian got tired of waiting for the Inquisitor to return to his quarters. Eventually, his search led him to the foundation beneath the hold where he found Mahanon practicing his flechettes on something that looked like a statue of a nug with a top hat.

“Ah, it’s you,” Mahanon noted and went back to throwing knives at the thing.

“Feel like telling me what’s wrong? Cole seems to think you should.” Dorian leaned against the foundation wall. He could almost hear an eerie music. “What is that thing?”

“I call him the Lord of the Pies.” Mahanon’s accent sounded entirely Dalish, not a good sign in Dorian’s experience.

“And how has he earned a set of knives in his face?”

“It’s stupid.” Mahanon said wearily.

“Well he might be that but that’s not an answer.”

“I just saved the life of the Empress of Orlais. No, no.” Mahanon held up a knife when Dorian drew in breath to speak. “I just saved the woman who ordered hundreds or maybe thousands of elves dead. She keeps our artifacts like curiosities. I faced down nobles and chevaliers and spies. And all I keep hearing is that silly little bitch by the gate calling me rabbit.”

“I… can’t know what that feels like.” Dorian said softly. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Please stay,” Mahanon said, taking a deep, shuddering breath.

“As long as you want, amatus.”


	4. After Here Lies The Abyss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: If anything about this seems weird, wrong, ignorant, or out of place, then I'd like to discuss it. I love talking about writing.

Varric had never harbored Bartrand’s fear of open skies but the night sky of the Western Approach came close to giving him the vertigo his brother used to complain of. The storyteller in him marked the moon with words like “gibbous” and “mysterious.” The stars were “distant” and “scintillating with knowledge dwarves were never meant to know.” Drawing the cold desert air in through his nose, Varric grunted and decided it wasn’t time to be alone.

It didn’t take long for Varric to locate Hawke among the tents spread out around Adamant. Between Cullen’s trebuchets and the archdemon there wasn’t much left of the battlements and for some strange reason not many people wanted to sleep near the giant rift the Inquisitor had stepped out of. Hawke was tucked up between some rubble and the remains of some fortifications where he could keep an eyes on a good sized slice of the camp.

“I won’t be sleeping tonight or possibly ever again,” Hawke announced on seeing Varric.

“Let’s not talk about weird shit tonight,” Varric said heavily. “We’ll feel better when the sun comes up. Isn’t that what humans say?”

“We have a lot of sayings like that. ‘The night is always darkest just before the dawn.’ ‘Sunlight sends the shadows slinking.’”

“You’re making that up,” Varric accused.

“Maybe a little,” Hawke said, smiling in a way that reminded Varric the demon had taunted Hawke with his family’s deaths. “The sunlight out here banishes just about everything including common sense.”

There was a lull in the conversation too full of ghosts to be comfortable. “If we’re not sleeping, up for a game of Wicked Grace?”

“Alright,” Hawke picked up his sword and shield, “lead the way.”

They wound through aisles of tents and Inquisition soldiers sleeping and socializing. The glow of the campfires cast twisted wraiths behind ordinary men and women. Varric had almost led them to a tent he knew had some camp chairs when he found the Inquisitor. The elf was staring at the moon, a bottle in his hand and an elfy song on his lips.

“Hey, boss,” Varric greeted and waited until the Inquisitor had focused on his face. “Got time for some Wicked Grace?”

“If you’ve room for a third,” Mahanon said, sounding more Dalish than usual.

“The more, the merrier,” Hawke said heartily.

It was shading past the point where late became early when Dorian found them. The Inquisitor didn’t pause in fiddling with his knives as he nudged a chair out with his toe. Hawke’s expression barely flickered as Dorian took the chair, a sour expression on his face.

“The shield gives me something to hide behind when I go charging in,” Hawke continued. “Fewer blows to the face that way.”

“I don’t believe in using a sword where a dagger will do,” the Inquisitor said.

“At least you’re under no illusions,” Dorian muttered.

The Inquisitor smiled at Dorian as if he’d just been given a gift, eyes softening in a way that Varric made sure to remember for the next chapter of his romance serial. Varric checked and Sparkler’s expression was similarly sappy.

“A dagger you can plunge in at just the right angle instead of hammering away,” the Inquisitor said, turning back to Hawke.

Hawke looked from the Inquisitor’s almost neutral expression to Dorian’s groaning and Varric could see the moment Hawke decided to push. “The Inquisition has been a lot friendlier with the Tevinter Imperium than I would have expected.”

“I follow the advice of people who’ve been playing The Game,” the sarcasm on those two words was much heavier than usual, “for years. If Ambassador Montilyet says to back Archon Radonis over King Markus, then that is what I will do.”

“Not what I meant,” Hawke said.

“Okay,” Varric interjected. “I am calling your bet.”

“I have every hope that my support for Magister Tilani will make a difference in the Imperium.” The Inquisitor said, laying down his cards.

“You’re backing a magister?” Hawke asked in disbelief, checking with Varric.

“Mae’s honorable in her way,” Varric said tiredly since they appeared to be having this argument now. “Hell, she’s family.” Varric held up his hands at the look Hawke gave him. “She married my cousin Thorold. Ask Isabela if you see her.”

“It’s not like I’m doing this blind.” The Inquisitor said, more obviously drunk than Varric could remember having seen him before. Also with a heavier Dalish accent than Varric was used to hearing. “Her enemies are backing the Venatori.”

“And the slave trade?” Hawke asked pointedly.

“You want my plans for the north or the south?” the Inquisitor asked, taking another pull.

“If the Imperium weren’t buying slaves there’d be no slave trade in the south.”

“Yes and no. I have been speaking with Ambassador Montilyet on econ- trade. There would be less profit if there were fewer buyers but ending some or even most buyers does not end trade. Black markets still exist.”

“He means powerful people on both sides of the continent would buy slaves on the sly. Especially in Antiva.” Sparkler interpreted. “I can’t say he’s wrong. Can you?”

“And that’s if slavery could be ended in Tevinter at all. I suppose I could march troops in there and try to take over by force.” the elf shrugged. “But then what would the magisterium do but panic and slaughter their slaves to get the power to fight me? Morrigan said the Hero of Ferelden met a magister who could do blood magic rituals to make himself harder to kill. Offered to kill her people to do it for her.

And then there’s who we’d be fighting. A large amount of their military is publicly owned slaves. I’d be killing slaves and they’d be killing slaves and most of the ones they kill would be elves because we make better sacrifices. As you saw.” The Inquisitor said, making the first reference to the Fade since they’d started.

“No more talking about weird shit,” Varric ordered. “Hawke, your deal. Sparkler, you in?”

“I’m game.” Dorian drew his chair around. He and the Inquisitor angled so they could lean toward each other without showing each other their cards.

“Then what do you plan to do?” Hawke asked, looking sidelong at Varric. “Wait?” He snapped the cards out one at a time.

“Slavers in the south have backers. Ambassador Montilyet thinks we can push _them._ And in the north we back the reform faction. Push to get murder treated as _murder_ before we take more direct action.”

“You’ll get a lot of pushback on that.” Sparkler said lazily. “And magisters who are willing to play dirty will have the advantage. The ones you back will likely be charged as maleficar. Business as usual.”

“Not if I send Templars and provide alternatives to Tranquility. Or if Cassandra can find a safe way to reverse it but no bets on that coming in time to help.”

“That would rather pull their teeth but they’ll figure out something to do about your Templars.”

“‘They’ and ‘you,’” Hawke noted aloud. “Which side are you on?”

“I,” Sparkler said grandly, “am on the side of the potential my countrymen possess, not their current corruption.”

“Very pretty,” Hawke said. “What does that mean in practical terms?” He scooped up his cards and started the bid.

“It means I’m taking a stand against Corypheus and attempts to rebuild the Empire we lost. Putting my own neck on the block, as it were. Do you require more?”

“And after?”

“After is not up for discussion,” the Inquisitor said sharply. At Hawke’s glare he continued. “If Varric can ban weird shit, I can ban after.” He flexed his marked hand.

“Apologies,” Hawke said, sounding surprisingly sincere considering the last three years. 

Varric slid his eyes over to Dorian just in time to catch his stricken expression before he pasted a smile over it. “Good call, Your Inquisitorialness.”

The Inquisitor gave them a sloppy salute as Dorian grabbed his bottle. “Hey.”

“Is for horses or so I’m told.” The mage took a drink.

“That’s why halla are better. Horses are so picky about their food. Halla can eat almost anything. Like goats. Not that they eat goats. Goats eat anything.”

“So you are Dalish,” Hawke said with a smile. “I was beginning to wonder.”

“That was rather uncalled for,” the Inquisitor said in such a perfect imitation of Dorian’s response to the Nightmare that Varric could feel the disturbingly blood temperature water around his legs.

Hawke blinked. “You’re very good.”

“Why I was chosen. Otherwise it would have been Ellana because she’s a mage. That would have been interesting. She follows Vir Atish’an.”

“You don’t talk much about your Clan, boss,” Varric said a little hesitantly, watching for signs of melancholy or temper.

“They’re not here.” The Inquisitor looked down at his cards. “I think I’m done for tonight.” He swiped a hand across his face. “It was a pleasure, gentlemen. In case I don’t see you before you leave, Hawke, safe travels.” He stood and wobbled. “Thank you for inviting me, Varric.”

“Any time, boss,” Varric said softly.

“I should-” Sparkler gestured after the Inquisitor. He grabbed the bottle and stood not much more steadily than the elf had. “Pleasure.”

After they were both gone, Hawke reached over and grabbed the cards they’d left behind. “They’re the age I was when we met.”

“More or less,” Varric agreed.

“Sweet Maker,” Hawke breathed.

“Yeah.”

“So, you went to Tevinter? What was it like?”

“There I was,” Varric began. “Antiva City, on the coast of Rialto Bay….”

***

The Hissing Wastes were cold and desolate in the small hours of the morning and miserable in the daytime. The only one prepared was Madame Vivienne who had brought a full set of ointments and a parasol. Everyone else was hiding in their tents during the day and most were still managing to burn and peel like guerns.

Mahanon was picking amrita vein under the cold light of the moon when they located the last of the Venatori slaves. The lock was simple enough to pick and Mahanon helped the man out of the wagon.

“Look at him, he’s shaking like a leaf.” Dorian said, horrified.

“Get back to our camp. The Inquisition will protect you,” Mahanon told the man. He gave directions, ignoring Dorian’s reaction. He could feel the edges of things neither of them was saying digging in behind his eyes and clawing at his throat.

***

Mahanon was staring out at the Frostbacks from the balcony of his bedroom. The last of the sunset glowed a golden red off the snow. He hummed tunelessly to himself as he heard Dorian climbing the stairs.

“I apologize. That was unworthy of me,” Dorian said, standing on the rug.

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Mahanon asked flatly, turning around to face Dorian.

“No, on the contrary, I think you’re quite intelligent,” Dorian said seriously. “If you were some slack-jawed yokel, you’d be dead several times over.”

Mahanon felt his eyes burning and he turned away.

“It was an unfair comment. I’ll leave if you-”

“No.” Mahanon said. “I’m sorry. I overreacted. You’re right, I’d be no help in finding a book.” He sighed, “That time I brought back those books, I couldn’t even tell two of them were the same book with different binding.”

“Amatus…”

“Is that what you’re angry about? My trouble keeping up?” Mahanon turned around angrily. “You _are_ angry.”

“No,” Dorian was the one who looked away. “When we fell into the chasm, into the Fade… I thought you were done for. I don’t know if I can forgive you for that moment.” 

“I’m not done for. I’m right here for you to shout at.”

“I thought I’d lost you,” Dorian said as Mahanon edged closer. “You sent me ahead and then didn’t follow. For just a moment, I was certain you wouldn’t. I thought, ‘This is it. This is where I finally lose him forever.’ Are you… alright?”

“Not really, no. It’s made me think about-” Mahanon waved his hand to indicate the world. “Do you consider yourself an Andrastian?”

“Oddly enough, yes. I think the Chantry is a relic that’s outlived the purpose it was created to serve but I believe in the Maker. I hope someone is watching out for us, far too frightening otherwise.” Dorian considered Mahanon. “Is that an issue? I can’t imagine you deciding to convert.”

“Not a problem just… I have no one to talk to about certain things but Dalish and she’s…” Mahanon shrugged helplessly. “The Inquisitor going down to the tavern for discussions about archery is the kind of attention she doesn’t want.”

“In the absence of any of people of your own faith, you’re considering discussing it with me? I’m honored.”

“You should be.”

“What I meant was, ‘Why not Solas?’”

Mahanon barked a strangled laugh. “He believes even less than you do. Quite emphatically.”

“Come to think of it, I don’t really know what your people believe beyond the multiple gods,” Dorian said curiously.

“There has been a, I believe the phrase is, ‘rocky history’ between the Dalish and Andrastians when it comes to sharing our culture. Some have been content to record what tales our Keepers decide to share. Others… reinterpret to attempt to explain our religion in terms more… amenable to the Chantry. And some fall between the two and merely question our knowledge of our own beliefs.” Mahanon smiled bitterly, standing very close to Dorian. “And yes, I know, our knowledge of our beliefs has been greatly lost along the way. That doesn’t mean the Chantry can swoop in and explain it to us.”

“I’ll admit to curiosity,” Dorian said, touching Mahanon’s arm. “I’ll listen. I can’t promise more than that. I don’t know enough.”

“The gods we worship are not the only gods to exist.” Mahanon said, sliding his arm around Dorian and tucking his head so he was looking at the floor.

“Right, they were at war with some other gods before they were sealed away.” Dorian wrapped his arms around Mahanon.

“Yes. The Forgotten Ones. Gods of pestilence and malice. And the Nightmare, if it caused the Blight and red lyrium has the Blight and Varric found red lyrium in a thaig from before the magisters walked into the Fade… does that not sound like a god’s power?” Mahanon shivered.

“Now there’s a pleasant thought,” Dorian muttered.

“Having time to think on it doesn’t improve the idea. They’re the opposite of what’s good in the world. Does that not describe the darkspawn?”

“It rather does. Were you planning on sharing this thought with your people?”

“My Keeper, no one else. If- _when_ I see her again, I’ll tell her everything.”

“Everything? Even the naughty bits?”

Mahanon snorted. “The details? No. That I’m having sex with a shemlen from Tevinter? Yes. My people aren’t squeamish like yours.”

“Oh! Squeamish is it?”

“There are two places to have sex in the woods: one, where there’s a decent chance you’ll be overheard or two, where no one will hear you screaming when the sylvans stomp you to death. The second one kills the mood for some of us.”

“But that’s what makes it an adventure!” Dorian kissed Mahanon’s hair. “On a more serious note, I’d ask that you not go around telling people about your miraculous journey to the Fade. There are enough idiots running around thinking the blood magic will solve all their problems. I’d rather there not be more fuel for the fire.”

“I can’t say my people are immune to that problem but I trust Keeper Istimaethoriel. Besides, it wouldn’t take long before someone decided Corypheus and his fellow magisters were innocent lambs led astray by an elven god. Never mind that the Forgotten Ones are no more _ours_ than the Old Gods of Tevinter.”

“You believe in the Old Gods?”

“I believe they exist. It’s rather hard not to what with the Blights and such.”

“Do you believe the Maker is real?”

Mahanon twisted to look up angrily. “I have been doing my best not to insult Andrastians. He either exists or does not regardless of my beliefs. Regardless of his existence or lack thereof, I have no intention of worshipping Him.” He sighed and made a conscious effort to relax. “I have my gods, the gods of my ancestors, I have no need of the others.”

“Amatus,” Dorian waited until Mahanon was looking at him. “Do you ever wish I was an elf?”

Mahanon couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing. The offended face Dorian made only caused him to laugh harder. “You got lost going to make water in the Hinterlands where you’d been before! You’d be a terrible elf. And you’d have to give up that mustache.” He gently put a hand on Dorian’s shoulder. “You wouldn’t be you as an elf.”

“But you prefer-”

“Oh, we’re having that discussion.” Mahanon said more seriously. “You prefer large, muscular men.”

“I- hadn’t thought you’d noticed.” Dorian said, eyes wide and voice falsely bright over panicky, quick breaths.

“What I notice and what I think is worth mentioning aren’t the same thing.” Mahanon said. “If what you mean is that if I were to lay out what I think the absolute ideal relationship for me would be, then yes. I’d say with an elf. I’d also say someone who is loyal and brave whom I trust at my back implicitly. Someone smart and who takes pleasure in their own skills. Someone who will tell me when I’m making a mess and who will listen to me when I say they’re making a mess. Someone who finds me interesting and doesn’t see spending time with me as a chore. You fit my list more than you don’t. You fit my list better than anyone else I’ve been with.” He moved his hand from Dorian’s shoulder to his jaw. “And I trust that you’re with me because I fit your list well enough that foregoing some items you’d find ideal isn’t a hardship, lethallin.”

“You and Solas call each other that sometimes,” Dorian said uneasily.

“It means I claim you as Clan,” Mahanon said, pulling his hand away. 

“You can do that? Just like that?” Dorian’s eyebrows pinched together as the corners of his mouth turned up.

“My loyalty and respect are mine to give. If they were not, they would be meaningless.” Mahanon tilted his head curiously. “If you don’t want me to-”

Dorian touched Mahanon’s face as Mahanon had done to him. “I think I can forgive you for not being muscular but only because your knife practice is so charming to hear first thing in the morning.”

Mahanon leaned into Dorian’s touch. “Happy to oblige.”

***

“We’re not drinking alone,” The Iron Bull boomed as Mahanon joined him and the Chargers in The Herald’s Rest.

They were a varied group with nothing in common but their leader. He tried not to stare at Dalish and her Dirthamen vallaslin and knew he was failing. He recognized Krem right off from the way he stayed ready to defend the qunari’s blind side, a pair of eyes for the one The Iron Bull had lost. 

As the introductions went around, Mahanon tried to focus on matching names to bare faces. Rocky the dwarf was an easy match. Grim and Stitches he wasn’t sure he could recognize after they left the tavern. 

A mage with Dirthamen vallaslin might be what she said, trained and sent away for safety. It was the most likely explanation. That it wasn’t the only one wasn’t something he felt like sharing. The Ben-Hassrath read expressions too well for Mahanon to be comfortable dwelling on that thought in front of him. “So, how’d you join the Chargers?” he asked Skinner quickly and last. 

“Killed some people,” she said in an Orlesian accent.

“Skinner didn’t take kindly to nobles testing their new swords on the elves in her alienage.” The Iron Bull clarified.

“Now I get paid to kill shems.”

“Well done.” Mahanon said sincerely.

The Iron Bull cleared his throat loudly. “This is actually really good behavior for her. She’s not marking her territory or anything.”

Mahanon gave them a blank look.

“That’s the Chief’s idea of a joke,” Krem said helpfully.

“Ah, yes.” Mahanon forced himself to smile. “Very funny.”

“Anyway,” The Iron Bull said, “these are my guys.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mahanon said, still smiling and forced himself to remain seated when they all spontaneously broke into song.

***

“Do you have a moment?” Mahanon asked Solas in his native language, his jaw clenched so tight it ached.

Solas looked up from the section of mural he was painting and frowned at Mahanon.

“I received news from Wycome and I need to speak my own language for a short time, hahren,” Mahanon said, moderating his tone.

“Let me take care of my brushes and then you will have my full attention, da’len,” Solas said, his expression easing. He put his brushes to soak and wiped up a smudge of dripped paint. “Now, da’len.”

“Duke Antoine is publicly our ally. And yet-” Mahanon snorted angrily. “you were right. We must be seen as above suspicion to be considered valued allies and we will never be that.”

“He is our enemy,” Solas prodded patiently.

“Of all the uses for red lyrium. Why would anyone put it in the wells? The wells!” His voice rose sharply and he clapped a hand over his mouth.

“That is indeed a foolish decision. And grave”

“Not just any wells. Only those the humans drink from.” Mahanon could feel his disgust and revulsion like knots in his abdomen. “That way when they notice themselves and their neighbors falling ill, they also see our people hale.

Then he tells his nobles, ‘Oh, I will do something about this awful plague. I will kill the elves! They must be the cause!’ Then he sends his men as bandits to kill my Clan!” The echo of Mahanon’s final word rang back from the distant ceiling of the rookery. He deflated, his hands feeling suddenly very heavy and his body shaking all over.

His own grief was mirrored in Solas’s expression. That someone else understood and didn’t simply tell him he was needed in Skyhold was like seeing sunlight when Cassandra had dragged him and his shackles outside. There was a world beyond what Mahanon needed to do.

“I’ve dispatched some of Leliana’s agents to attempt to show the shemlen the truth.” Mahanon’s breath hitched. “The Keeper won’t pull the Clan back. Some of our people in the city went to warn my Clan about Duke Antoine’s intended purge. They are our people and Clan Lavellan will not abandon them.” His eyes stung as he looked at Solas. “The nobles just accepted the explanation. And shemlen wonder why we hate them.”

“Your Clan is remarkably invested in the welfare of our people,” Solas said gently. “Their loss would be terrible for all of The People. If Leliana’s agents fail and all that can be done is to mourn them, I would mourn them with you, lethallin.”

“My gratitude, lethallin,” Mahanon said, throat tight. “I will do what needs to be done, hahren. Do not doubt that please.”

“Of course,” Solas said, his voice also heavy with darker emotions. “And thank you. I appreciate the insight into how the Dalish came to mean such a small thing.”

***

Seeing Gatt again was a pleasant surprise for Bull. But the second thought was to wonder how many Ben-Hassrath had been turned down or passed over as choices for the operation because they didn’t want to be tainted by his presence. “Boss, this is Gatt. We worked together in Seheron.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Inquisitor,” Gatt said. “Hissrad’s reports say you’re doing good work.”

The small twitches of the muscles around the Inquisitor’s mouth and eyes gave away the curiosity that dogged the elf no matter how angry he had been for the last week or two. “Your name is Hissrad?” he asked Bull.

“Under the Qun, we use titles, not names.” Gatt prompted.

“My title was ‘Hissrad,’” Bull said, knowing the past tense would give him away as soon as he heard it aloud, “because I was assigned to secret work. You can translate it as ‘Keeper of Illusions,’ or-”

“Liar,” Gatt insisted. “It means liar.”

“Well you don’t have to say it like that.” Bull watched the Inquisitor’s lips twitch in agreement with Gatt.

“It’s nice to be thought well of,” the Inquisitor said mildly.

“Look, Gatt-” Bull began because he could feel this meeting sliding out of control before they even made enemy contact.

“Relax,” Gatt said, confirming that Bull was giving himself away left and right. “Unlike our superiors, I know how it works out here. We’re in this together. The Tevinter imperium is bad enough without the influence of this Venatori cult.”

“Yes,” Dorian began in a tone that spelled trouble. “Filthy, decadent brutes, the lot of them. I’m certain life would be much better for all of us under the Qun.”

“Not now,” the Inquisitor said, his smile too tight to fool someone without the benefit of Ben-Hassrath training.

“It was for me,” Gatt said, almost hiding the touch of old pain. “After the Qunari rescued me from slavery in Tevinter. I was eight. The Qun isn’t perfect, but it gave me a better life.”

The Inquisitor folded his arms and glared deliberately at the rain falling on the leaves above his head.

“Yes,” Dorian said in a poisonous tone. “One free from all that pointless free will and independent thought. Such an improvement.”

“Stop,” the Inquisitor said very quietly. “We aren’t here to debate whether it’s better to keep people in line with the threat of drugging them into submission or by enslaving them. So far as the Inquisition is concerned, the answer is neither.”

“Fair enough, I suppose,” Dorian said, flicking a guilty glance back at Solas.

“I’m not here to convert anyone. All I care about is stopping this red lyrium from reaching Minrathous.” Gatt said more patiently than Bull would have expected. It had been too long.

“With this stuff the Vints could make their slaves into an army of magical freaks. We could lose Seheron… and see a giant Tevinter army come marching back down here.” Bull reminded everyone.

“The Ben-Hassrath agree,” Gatt said as if the previous conversation had never occurred. “that’s why we’re here. Our dreadnought is safely out of view, and out of range of any Venatori mages on shore. We’ll need to eliminate the Venatori, then signal the dreadnought so it can come in and take out the smuggler ship.”

The conversation subsided into a discussion of tactics and Bull left to brief Krem as soon as they agreed there was only one real course of action. From the corner of his eye, he could see the Inquisitor talking to Gatt. Curiosity about Gatt, Bull, what the Qun had to offer elves, or all three.

The Chargers were ready. He knew it and they knew it. But he continued to talk them up as long as he could, even knowing he was drawing it out. There was always a chance they’d die but somehow it was different with Gatt there, working directly for the Ben-Hassrath.

And then he was hitting Venatori bodies with his maul in a fun and squishy way. Things in his head settled back into their usual patterns. Swing hard, see the prowler feint and dash his brains in. There was pleasure and simplicity in the exertion. These people needed to be stopped and he was uniquely gifted at stopping them.

“You must wish you were back in Tevinter, mage,” Gatt poked after the first position was down. “No soldiers to guard you here, no slaves to wait on you.”

“It’s the lack of fashion that really strikes fear into my heart.”

“You know nothing of fear,” Gatt said, his temper showing.

“And you intend to teach me?” Dorian asked, his tone making it clear he was prepared for a yes.

“No. You serve the Inquisition, and the Ben-Hassrath wish an alliance. For now, that is enough.”

“If the shemlen are quite done, there are more targets.” The Inquisitor said tartly.

It didn’t escape Bull’s attention that Dorian reacted as if he’d been struck physically. He saw Gatt noticing too.

Evidently the Inquisitor was aware too because he followed it with, “Stop allowing yourself to be baited.”

“Fine,” Dorian growled.

The roar of Dorian’s walls of fire was a little more vigorous as they hit the rest of the Venatori. The thrum of battle was still ringing through him as the signal flare went up and he rejoiced at the sight of the dreadnought taking down the smuggler ship. Then a vision out of a nightmare drained the elation from him.

“If you sound the retreat, they still have enough time to pull back,” the Inquisitor said softly, watching Bull closely.

“Yeah,” said Bull. He hesitated, he knew it. He knew hesitation was death. He knew that if he failed to act, Krem and Stitches and Dalish and Skinner and Rocky and Grim would all die as if he had made the decision to order it. And still, the words stuck in his throat.

“Your men need to hold that position, Bull,” Gatt said as if those words could anchor the indecision, the weight of them tip a fear into a commitment. Purity of purpose and deed.

“They do that, they’re dead,” Bull found himself saying. 

“And if they don’t, the Venatori retake it and the dreadnought is dead,” Gatt said, sounding close to pleading. “You’d be throwing away an alliance between the Inquisition and the Qunari! You’d be declaring yourself Tal-Vashoth!” The look Bull gave Gatt only provoked him further. “With all you’ve given the Inquisition, half the Ben-Hassrath think you’ve betrayed us already! I stood up for you, Hissrad! I told them you would never become Tal-Vashoth!”

“They’re my men.”

“I know but you need to do what’s right Hissrad… for this alliance. And for the Qun.” Gatt pleaded openly.

Every second that passed brought them closer to a moment the decision would be made for him. He turned to the Inquisitor for guidance. The angles of the Inquisitor’s face seemed to harden and Bull did not take the easy way out and refuse to see the emotions written there. Anger flared followed by disbelief and then disgust.

“Call the retreat,” the Inquisitor said, looking at the ship whose destruction he had just ordered.

“Don’t!” Gatt begged.

The horn was against his lips and he blew. He took a moment to gauge the reactions of his fellow members of the Inquisition. Dorian was inspecting his nails with a suspicious amount of attention. Solas was looking at Bull with a depth of compassion he’d known would be there but still found himself unprepared for. And then he forced himself to watch the dreadnought go down. 

“They’re falling back,” he said quietly.

“All these years, Hissrad,” Gatt said and Bull forced himself to identify the emotion in the viddathari’s voice as heartbreak, “and you throw away all that you are. for what? For this? For _them_?” He gestured angrily in the direction of the Inquisitor and Dorian.

“I am sorry that we cannot ally with the Qunari,” the Inquisitor said flatly.

“Yeah, me too,” Gatt said, all the fight leaving his voice and shoulders and his hands going limp before he walked away.

“No way they’ll get out of range. Won’t be long now.” Bull who would never again be called Hissrad said aloud. They all watched in silence as brave Qunari warriors gave their lives for a failed alliance.

The explosion that followed echoed in the parts of himself he had just emptied. 

“Come on, let’s get back to my boys,” he said, forcing the words past that echo.

After Gatt made the non-alliance official, the Inquisitor turned to Bull and raised his eyebrows. “Solas says I owe you an explanation.” He held up a hand to forestall a comment Bull had never planned to make. “I am not angry or disappointed that you didn’t back your men sooner. I fully understand that you were attempting to find a way to be loyal to both and that is difficult. But you went into the fight without having done that. You knew both were on the line and you hesitated before it was over. You need to get that sorted.”

That cut hard enough that Bull thrust back. “And if it were between your people and the Inquisition?”

“I am the Inquisitor,” he said heavily. “When this is over Clan Lavellan will be dead or I’ll be dead or I’ll go to them to be officially struck from their number.” He held up four fingers. “Clan, Dalish, elves, the world. The Inquisition is my Clan until further notice.”

Bull recognized the tone of fear and guilt coloring the Inquisitor’s words. It didn’t make it easier that whatever was happening with Clan Lavellan was the true source of the Inquisitor’s rage. “It won’t happen again boss.”

Seeing Krem come running up and immediately running at the mouth eased the tightness in his chest. He didn’t even mind that the Inquisitor was obviously happier to see Krem than he’d been to see Bull.

***

“Andaran’atishan,” Mahanon greeted the man Dorian understood to be a mage with a warmth he’d never seen the Inquisitor have for any other stranger. That warmth faded rather quickly in the face of the old man’s response. Rapid exchanges of elven words Dorian wasn’t familiar with flew back and forth until Mahanon stepped away with a respectful bow.

“They don’t look eager to help us,” Dorian said quietly as they walked back to camp. He and the Inquisitor had fallen a few steps behind Varric and Solas.

“They see the Inquisition as a thing of the Chantry,” the Inquisitor said distantly, an edge of tears in his voice. “Keeper Hawen will allow me to prove myself by assisting them. He’s under some strain.”

“Allow you to help them?” Dorian scoffed. “Such a favor.”

“They are trapped here so long as the fighting continues and his First and Second have run off in separate directions.” Mahanon said, the tremble leaving his voice. “They are liable to starve or be killed without help but admitting that….” Mahanon sighed. “We are a proud people.”

“Proudly starving to death.” Dorian said.

Mahanon’s eyes flashed. “How hungry have you been in your life?”

“I apologize,” Dorian said quickly, something twisting in his gut. “What was it you called me in front of them?”

“Ma vhenan,” Mahanon said, his eyes softening.

“Something nasty I’m sure by the way everyone looked at me like I was a snake.”

“It means ‘my heart.’” Mahanon said quietly.

“Oh.” Dorian stopped walking.

“Are you angry?” Mahanon asked, stopping a pace in front of Dorian.

“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“My people, we do not hide such things,” Mahanon said, looking up at Dorian. “Not without a great deal of cause.” Dorian watched a series of expressions flit across the Inquisitor’s tattooed face, pulling the inky lines in a variety of directions before settling on an endearingly earnest look. “You mean a great deal to me, ma vhenan. I should have been clearer.”

The first emotion Dorian felt was relief followed by an anger at having been worried. “You’re very sentimental for someone who’s killed as many people as you have.”

He flourished his daggers. “You bring it out of my cold, killer’s heart.”

“Sweet Maker,” Dorian said in mock disgust, “next you’ll be making calf’s eyes at puppies.”

“There were some truly adorable mabari puppies on the way to Caer Oswin,” Mahanon said as they rejoined Solas and Varric in time to catch the end of some commentary on Orzammar.

“And so it begins,” Dorian groaned.

“What’s that?” Varric asked curiously. For his next book no doubt.

“I am doomed to collapse into a pile of mushy emotions,” Mahanon deadpanned. “A fate more awful than never admitting I want anything.”

“Uh huh,” Varric said and changed the subject.

That night after the Inquisitor had snuggled himself into Dorian’s camp bed he whispered in Dorian’s ear, “After the last couple weeks I shouldn’t have assumed you knew how I felt. I will do better in the future.”

He rubbed a hand between Mahanon’s shoulder blades, unable to find the correct words. He supposed it was enough because the elf’s breathing steadied into the slow, gentle rhythm of sleep.

A day of chasing a halla around the rocky fields of the Exalted Plains exhausted Dorian’s patience with the blasted animals. He couldn’t understand the way Mahanon beamed at them. Worse than puppies really.

“She realized we wanted to help and says she’s sorry for the bother,” Mahanon told them, stroking a hand along the halla’s back.

“She said all that?” Varric asked dubiously.

“Oh yes,” Mahanon said. “They’re very bright. Smarter than the average Dalish child who tries to sneak out of herder duty.” Mahanon waved at a half-hidden elf child on a rock ten paces away. “They get panicky but sometimes they’ll let us ride them.”

“Let you?” Dorian asked, eyeing her horns.

“The Dalish are… very attached to their halla,” Varric said in a tone of vast understatement. “Clan Sabrae was devastated by the loss of theirs. I’m surprised this Clan hasn’t tried to turn all the Orlesian forces inside out for thinking about hurting these halla.”

“Not enough hands to hold bows,” Mahanon said very quietly.

“Is that why you were cursing at the requisitions officer?” Dorian asked. “I thought you were about to stab her.”

“I’m not killing halla. It’s not negotiable.” Mahanon said angrily. “That shemlen come here and poach them for leather-” He trailed off into elven words Dorian assumed were obscenities. “If I find anyone up to that, I will gut them,” he finished.

“We believe you, boss,” Varric said reassuringly.

Dorian’s mind circled back around to his initial set of questions. “They communicate with you without magic?”

“With all elves. Mostly with the herders though.” Mahanon made a face and scratched the halla behind an ear. “The herders are a bit weird. Too much time with halla and not enough talking aloud.”

“Yes, I noticed he was a bit more open to talking to you than anyone else was,” Solas said. His eyes were sad as he watched the halla flick her ears at Mahanon. 

The Inquisitor kissed her nose and released her. “Demons next. I would really enjoy some demon killing right now.”

***

Varric found the Inquisitor in Skyhold’s stables, rubbing the jaw of a dracolisk and making cooing noises. “Is this some elfy animal friend shit?” he asked, watching the way she stamped when she caught his scent.

“I thought she might be useful. They’re relatives of dragons and she might give me some insight into her much larger and more bloodthirsty cousins,” Mahanon said as he captured her attention again with his fingers against some flaking scales.

“I mean that she’s tried to bite everyone else’s fingers off and Master Dennet is close to having hysterics over her effect on the harts and horses.” Varric said, leaning against the farthest vertical surface from the dracolisk that still let him see the Inquisitor’s face. “And here you are like she’s a fluffy kitten.”

“It’s a matter of paying attention.” Mahanon said in a gentle voice. “You have to know what they like and what they don’t like. Some things feel good and others make her skittish or irritable. You just have to watch her carefully enough for long enough to learn her tells. Like Wicked Grace. She’s nowhere near as intelligent as a halla but she’s a smart girl just the same.”

She made a loud exhalation and thrust her jaw more firmly into Mahanon’s hands.

“So, definitely elfy animal friend shit.”

“I’m thinking of naming her Rahne.”

“I smell a story.” Varric said, leaning forward.

“She was- is- sort of my… what’s the word for it?”

“Ex-girlfriend?” Varric suggested.

“Possibly? We nearly went through the bonding ceremony.” Mahanon said, still petting the dracolisk.

“Ex-fiancée.”

Mahanon tried the word out like he was tasting each syllable.

“What happened?” Varric asked, the storyteller in him getting the better of his patience.

“Oh, we realized we weren’t compatible,” Mahanon said as if it were no big deal. “For the best though it didn’t feel that way at the time.”

“Well that’s the most lukewarm breakup story I’ve heard in a while. Who decided you weren’t good together?”

“Both of us?” Mahanon shrugged. “There was no particular reason. We were well matched at fourteen, less so at sixteen and that looked to be a gap that was widening.”

“You nearly got married to the girlfriend you had at fourteen.”

“Bonding. Ceremony.” Mahanon enunciated crisply. “Is that so unusual?”

“A bit yeah unless your family does the arranged marriage thing and then it can still be odd to marry someone from when you’re that young. Sorry, bond with. Where’s she at now?”

“With the rest of the Clan in Wycome.”

“Again, the most lukewarm story I’ve heard in ages. No wonder you broke up.”

“We’re good friends,” Mahanon said, his forehead creasing in confusion. “And I’m good friends with her husband.”

“So good you want to name that thing after her,” Varric said after the dracolisk made a sound like a dying teakettle.

“Rahne would have adored her,” Mahanon said, sounding almost exactly like Dorian in a way Varric wasn’t sure was intentional. “Will adore her,” he said in something closer to a Marcher accent. “She tried to keep a cave spider as a pet when we were children.”

“And it’s the halla herders you find odd.” Varric watched the Inquisitor and his pet, a thought surfacing. “Have you talked to Sparkler about her?”

“Not yet. I came here to think about it.”

“Huh, well, Ruffles is looking for you. They have news on where to find a lead for Samson.”

***

The Emerald Graves were an awesome sight to Mahanon. His Clan’s wanderings had kept them in the Free Marches for many years, far from this natural cathedral. The trees grew deep and peacefully, that peace transferred to the afterlives of those buried beneath them. The very air felt green and growing. That tranquil strength enveloped Mahanon as he cleared out the intruders and sought Samson’s supply train. They were following the scouts’ directions toward another possible location for a camp when Dorian’s voice broke the background noises of the forest.

“We’re lost! We’re lost aren’t we!? We’re lost in the woods and we’re going to starve to death and die!”

Mahanon blinked and turned around to look at Dorian. The mage’s breathing was coming too fast and his pupils were dilated past what was needed to see under the trees. “Dorian. Breathe with me,” Mahanon said, standing in front of Dorian. He put his hands on his shoulders and breathed the way Keeper Istimaethoriel had taught him when he was a small child and the fear had been bigger than he was.

After a few moments, Dorian’s breathing steadied into something closer to normal.

“Our campsite is five hundred paces that way. It will take more than twice that to reach it because of the way this hill slopes.”

“I understand,” Dorian said after a pause.

“A terrible elf.” Mahanon kissed Dorian’s lips.


	5. Leading Up To What Pride Hath Wrought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anything about this seems wrong, ignorant, or out of place, then I'd like to discuss it. Historical notes at the end of this chapter.

“Two updates you might be interested in,” Mahanon announced, entering the rotunda. He waited for Solas to put down his book and give his full attention. “My Clan has allied with the sh- those of our people who live in the alienages and together they have taken Wycome. Duke Antoine is dead. His immediate subordinates are dead. That’s the good news.

The bad news is that the nobles have run off to the surrounding cities spreading tales of The People murdering a popular leader for absolutely no reason. Because The People are always a hair away from snapping and committing violent acts in full view of the public.” With an effort of will, Mahanon pulled his hand away from his knife scar. “Some of the Commander’s soldiers have been sent to reinforce Wycome from the oncoming military forces of the surrounding Marcher cities. The Keeper says there are shemlen merchants dealing with The People fairly for the first time in centuries. She says she won’t abandon any of our people to pay for what our Clan has done.”

“An admirable attitude,” Solas said.

“She has hope,” Mahanon said tiredly. “This is the type of thing she’s always wanted. Alliance and fair dealing. If they survive, I’m not sure they’ll keep traveling or stay to try to build on that. Or if she’ll stay and my sister will be Keeper.”

“The Venatori have cast many certainties into doubt.”

“Second is less personal: The Clan has sent a halla in apology for the way The People wronged the shemlen at Red Crossing. We’ve led the shemlen to believe they are holding the halla as a valued hostage.” Mahanon smiled. “The halla is safe, The People have apologized, and the shemlen will care for the halla.”

“Your people, they simply accepted this revision to their history?” Solas’s eyebrows rose skeptically.

“Well, yes.” Mahanon blinked.

“They accepted a change that placed them in the wrong of a fight that’s been going on for centuries.”

“Yes.”

“Based on an ancient document from the hands of a man they believe connected to the Chantry.”

“I am not Harellan. I undertook the tasks Keeper Hawen set me. I am of The People.”

“It’s as simple as that,” Solas’s voice held age and bitterness in equal measure. It sounded like defeat.

Mahanon paused, watching the slump of Solas’s shoulders. “Hahren, at the last Clan Meet one of the Clans discussed a man, raised in the alienage of Hasmal. He had a plan for returning Falon’Din to our plane.” He looked Solas in the eye. “He wanted to perform an orgy with a dozen virgin Dalish women. He was quite serious.”

“That’s-” Disgust pulled Solas’s mouth.

“Yes. My Clan still tells the story of a… bare faced couple who planned to contact June by the precise placement of certain runes on pieces of bloodstone at certain shrines. I’m not sure how long ago.

Another Clan shared a story about a woman who quite earnestly believed Andruil was whispering to her through the seal on the heavens. She was apparently receiving instructions to observe halla.” Mahanon sighed and shrugged his shoulders to loosen them. “Every Clan that has ever come into contact with sh- outsiders has stories like that. It is a reason we feel we are the best bet for preserving the lore of The People.”

“Your people are blind children-”

“We don’t all have the same customs but we share information. Who did you try to contact, hahren?” Mahanon felt the words he’d been thinking on since Haven slip from his mouth. “The closer they live to the Emerald Graves, the more… militantly insular the Clan tends to be. With exceptions, of course. And some farther away have problems with outsiders. It depends on the leadership. Since Keeper Zathrian died, his First became Keeper and they’ve softened on the topic of outsiders.” He hugged himself defensively. “There are some Clans that would call me shemlen because my maternal great-grandmother came from the alienage in Highever. They say we’ve polluted ourselves by associating with-”

“Bare faced shemlen,” Solas supplied.

“Yes,” Mahanon admitted, slumping.

“I offered knowledge straight from the Fade,” Solas said angrily. “And they clung to scraps instead.” He relaxed with an obvious effort. “But you have been nothing but polite and respectful since our first argument. I respect your commitment to your people, lethallin. I cannot approve of them as a whole.” 

 

“I know some of our Clans do cruel, useless things like send young children into the wilderness for having magic too weak to be of use to the Clan. Such a one as Minaeve would have a place as Second in my Clan, or as a halla herder, if she so chose once she learned to control her magic. May the Dread Wolf take those who do such harm to children.” Mahanon said sincerely.

Solas flushed and cleared his throat. “I am sure that you are pleased that at least Dorian won’t be running to greet you with a handful of daisies.”

Mahanon laughed weakly. “There is that.”

***

“Varric?” Mahanon said tentatively, standing near the fireplace with his eyes darting to see who was in earshot.

“If you’ve got something to talk about-” Varric shifted his focus to Mahanon.

“Yes. I’ve heard you used to associate with a Dalish mage.” And he hadn’t brought it up until now because he didn’t want to pry but he’d noticed both Varric and Hawke seemed unusually familiar with Dalish terms.

“Merrill’s looking after the mages from Kirkwall.” Varric said as if it were only of passing concern.

“Do you think she could come here? I could really use the perspective.” Mahanon said, voice low.

“Uh, boss, she was kicked out of her Clan for practicing blood magic.”

“She still sounds more reliable than the Orlesian Empress’s Arcane Advisor.” Mahanon’s gaze flicked up toward Madame Vivienne’s perch.

“Well, you did end the war between the mages and the templars so she’s probably free. I’ll write her.” Varric said heavily.

“Thank you, Varric.”

“Boss? She has one of those mirrors too. It’s why she was doing blood magic.”

“Could you ask her to bring it?”

Varric sighed. “Yeah. I’ll do that and hope we don’t get demons crawling out of our asses.”

“We’ll be able to handle them,” Mahanon said confidently.

“Not comforting, boss.”

***

Comte Boisvert met Mahanon and his ambassador on a sunny afternoon in Val Royeaux. Mahanon kept thinking how few people there were for such large, airy rooms. Skyhold was large but always filled with the buzz of people going about their work. The comte’s chateau was echoing with space that could have housed multiple Clans.

“Welcome, my friends,” the comte said in a quietly polite voice as he sent the lone servant away.

“Thank you for seeing us, Comte Boisvert,” Ambassador Montilyet said, edging in front of Mahanon.

“The honor is mine. Please, sit.” Comte Boisvert did not stand to meet them. He lifted a wine glass to his masked face. “It’s an honor to assist two such distinguished guests.”

Mahanon sat on the outside where he could quickly stand and deal with potential threats. “We appreciate you help, Comte.” If in doubt on protocol, politeness rarely went amiss.

“The death of Lady Montileyet’s servants must weigh heavily on you. Have you heard of the House of Repose?”

“The assassins’ league?” Ambassador Montilyet nodded her head forward.

The comte uncrossed his legs and leaned forward conspiratorially. A move Mahanon would never trust from an Orlesian. “My contacts obtained a copy of a document in their archives. A contract for a life.” He pushed a scroll toward them across the table.

Looking at Mahanon, Ambassador Montilyet took the scroll. “‘The House of Repose is hereby sworn to eliminate anyone attempting to overturn the Montilyets’ trading exile in Orlais.’”

“I take it this is normal for Orlais?” Mahanon eyed the Comte warily.

“It’s not unheard of,” the ambassador answered.

“The contract was signed by a noble family: the Du Paraquettes.”

“But the Du Paraquettes died out as a noble line over sixty years ago!” she protested.

“Indeed. But the contract was signed one hundred and nine years ago.”

“If the people who wanted your family dead are gone, why are the assassins still after you? Hasn’t the- what’s the word?- vendetta died with them?” Mahanon asked. People like Heir existed because The People weren’t above blood feuds either. It was certainly more comprehensible than chevaliers. What didn’t make sense was pursuing it past the point one party was no longer around to enjoy victory.

“A contract is a contract, Inquisitor!” She pulled back in shock. “Orlesian businesses live and die by their reputations.”

“Creators forbid they get a reputation for being reasonable,” Mahanon muttered.

“The entire guild’s welfare would be endangered if an agreement was tossed aside on a whim of time or fate.”

“And the way to avoid this is to keep contracts with people who died? I thought everyone here worked for gold. Who provides the gold for something like this when they’re dead?”

“The Du Paraquette who arranged the contract would have settled that with the Guildmaster. That’s why they cannot renege. They have already been paid.”

“She’s quite right, Your Worship. The House of Repose is doing what it feels necessary. By its standards.”

“Ambassador?” Mahanon looked to her for direction.

“The Du Paraquettes still have descendants under the common branch.” She said thoughtfully. “If we elevate them to nobility, a Du Paraquette could annul the contract on my life.”

“That will take time, Lady Montilyet. Time during which the House of Repose will be obliged to hunt you.” The comte warned.

“Will they now?” A cunning smile played across her mouth. “You are exceedingly well informed. Your note to us said you’d heard rumors at best?”

“A bit of subterfuge. This contract on your life is an ugly business, one the House of Repose deeply regrets. But this is Orlais. Even an assassin’s word is his bond.”

“Does Comte Boisvert actually exist?” Mahanon’s hands twitched toward his dagger hilts.

“Absolutely,” the assassin answered calmly. “The comte’s offer to reveal the killers of Lady Montilyet’s messengers was genuine. So was his information. Somehow. An end to be tied up later.”

“I’m guessing the real Comte Boisvert met with a fatal accident?” 

“Comte Boisvert slumbers in a nearby closet! Nothing more.” The assassin showed his first real hint of fear. “The contract on Lady Montilyet’s life is so unusual, we felt the courtesy of an explanation was in order.”

Ambassador Montilyet sighed. “It is appreciated, monsieur.”

“Your idea to seek out a Du Paraquette to revoke our orders is an interesting one. I wish you luck.” He stood to leave and Mahanon blocked him. “I did not come to shed blood today. Inquisitor- only to speak. Might I pass?”

“Why warn us about your contract and let us go?” Mahanon shifted his weight to the balls of his feet.

“In Orlais, it is only decent to inform those involved in a contract when extraordinary circumstances conspire.”

“It’s foolish,” Mahanon objected.

“And the guild’s reputation would suffer if you ignore the contract. I quite understand.” The ambassador spoke up.

“Thank you, my lady. May we conclude with my departure?”

Mahanon thought about it, meeting the eyes behind the man’s mask. Killing this man would not protect anyone but he was Orlesian. It was the knowledge that the assassin would kill more Orlesians that made him step aside. Let them deal their own death. An empire where paper was more important than people would only stand for so long. “Go then.”

“Good day, Your Worship. My Lady. I pray we never meet again.”

***

It had been over a month since Mahanon had dreamed of home. Since well before his physical journey into the Fade. As he grew more accustomed to the anchor, he began to know waking from sleeping with more certainty and he’d begun to develop an amount of control over his dreams.

It was night and the Clan was camped deep in the forest near the Tevinter border. The soft sound of Hahren Kanwy carving melded with the song Master Midarian and Ilene were singing to one another. The golden firelight lovingly caressed faces marked with vallaslin. The shadows jumped, in time with the flames as his people laughed, sang, and worked. Halla snorted and he could hear a child’s treble voice respond. Even Esmeré sat with a smile and no hint of the cough that had killed her.

“Is this truly what you want, little brother?” Ellana asked, suddenly at his side. Her eyes, almost identical to his own, bored into him.

Mahanon turned to look where her gaze was locked. It was himself, young and barefaced, dancing with Rahne. And Tamor. “That? No.”

Rahne gracefully skipped through a step of the dance, landing in front of Tamor who laughed and took her hand for the next step. The younger Mahanon turned to dance with Mery as the pattern dictated.

“I was stupid. I’m probably still stupid but it will take me several more years to realize the full depth of my stupidity.” Mahanon said. “Should I live that long.”

“Ah, is that what this is about?” Ellana smirked at him. “I did try to warn you.”

“And I needed to try anyway. Stupid.”

“What is so different this time?” Ellana put her hand on Mahanon’s shoulder.

“Me,” Mahanon exhaled. He watched himself smile at Rahne as the dance brought her back to him. “I am in a place of our people the like of which we have not inhabited in Ages. I am surrounded by shemlen who seem to forget that I have no intention of being one of them. I am making decisions on who lives and who dies.”

“And no one calls you ‘Ellana’s little brother’ anymore.” Ellana’s voice was soft and sad.

“I am sorry.”

“You know what I would tell you. You are my little brother regardless of your decision. And you know that I would hate this choice you have made.”

“I know. I’m being selfish but only in this one thing.”

“Who are you trying to convince?”

“Keeper.” Mahanon looked back at the fires. “She’ll blame herself.” He took a deep breath. “I’m rather angry at her, aren’t I?”

“Just a wee bit.”

“She sent me away and I can’t go back. And she won’t understand at all.” He said the last watching a young, bare faced Rahne twirl and dip, laughing. Her glossy red braids swung in time with the music.

He woke on the floor, wrapped in blankets, tears on his face, and Dorian’s drowsy breathing rang in his ears from the direction of the bed .

***

“And you think I could make them agree?” Cassandra faced Mother Giselle in the forge, disbelief soaking her words. “I’ve heard enough for one day, Mother Giselle.”

“Talk to her, Your Worship,” Mother Giselle murmured as she swept out the door. 

Mahanon wasn’t sure what else Mother Giselle thought he’d come here to do. Make faces at Cassandra? The idea had its appeal. “Is there a problem? It seems like she’s bothering you.”

“Mother Giselle is kind. And she means well. So… yes, she was. I assume you’ve heard that Leliana and I are both candidates to be the next Divine. Because of what happened at Halamshiral, of course. The Empire favors you, thus everyone close to you. So now the Chantry bandies our names about without even asking us first.” 

“But you and Leliana aren’t even priests?” Mahanon wasn’t sure how it worked. It still seemed odd to him that mages who could experience the Fade directly were barred from the Chantry while those like Cassandra and Leliana could be elevated without knowing anything that wasn’t at least second hand. Keepers could walk into the Fade and talk to the people who lived there, learn and see and experience beyond what the waking senses could take in. Leliana spoke of prophetic dreams but said the Fade was a twisted reflection. Cassandra had been touched by a Spirit of Faith and seemed to have relaxed around Cole but she still shied from asking mages about the place she claimed her god came from.

“It’s not without precedent. Amara the Third was sister to the Emperor, and Galatea a commoner. Leliana and I were at least part of the Chantry hierarchy. It would be accepted.”

Lessons from his preparation for Halamshiral filled in some of the blanks Cassandra skipped over. The Chantry had representatives everywhere. Anyone could join the Chantry at any time but not all who did so were considered equal and many times the rank of their origins continued to hold sway over how high they could climb. Galatea had been brought up as a notable exception. Joining the ranks of the Chantry cut off some avenues of power and opened others in complicated patterns whose connection to the Maker eluded Mahanon.

“From what I understand, I think you’d make an excellent Divine.” She had the standing as a noble, she’d been favored by the previous Divine, and she had a strength of personality that could force people to pay attention. And, as Dorian would point out, she had a very direct way of dealing with conflict. The Chantry looked like it could use that.

“Truly? I never look good in hats.” Cassandra turned and walked beside Mahanon out toward the sunny courtyard. “Surely it was never meant to be like this. The Chantry, The Circle of Magi, The Templars… this cannot be what they intended when it all began.” Cassandra stood in front of Mahanon, her stance widening to encompass the world. “The Chantry should provide faith. Hope. Instead, it cannot veer from its course, even in the face of certain death.”

“I can’t say I’m too familiar with the parts of the Chantry that have to do with faith and hope. More the parts that mean my people find it easier to stay in the woods where we can eke out an existence without demands we give up who we are.”

“And that is part of the problem. The Chant should not be forced down anyone’s throat. It should be a beacon calling to those who need it. Varric blasphemes with every second breath but deep down he believes. His heart is virtuous. But he would never step foot in a chantry. It should be the first place to which the virtuous turn. It needs to change. Perhaps I must be the one to change it.”

“What would you do differently?” 

“The Circle of Magi has its place, but it needs reform. Let the mages govern themselves, with our help. Let the Templars stand not as the jailors of mages, but as protectors of the innocent. We must be vigilant, but we must also be compassionate to all peoples of Thedas, human or no. That is what I would change.” Conviction filled Cassandra’s eyes.

“Would these Circles and compassion include attempts at removing mages from Dalish Clans who want them? What about mages of the Chasind or Avvar tribes?”

“Your peoples are so remote, I doubt we will have time for such tasks.”

Mahanon gave her a long look. “You once said that it did not matter to you if I believed because you believe and that is enough. Your people have your beliefs about mages. My and my people’s belief is that our mages are necessary. They are a cherished and valued part of the Clan that without which, there is no Clan. It puzzles me that we and the Chasind and the Avvar live with our mages as part of our families, our daily lives, and yet your people reject this idea as utterly intolerable. So many of you act as if it is either Circles or the Imperium’s corruption. Are we so invisible or is that your people find us so distasteful?”

“For some it is distaste,” Cassandra said reluctantly. “For others, they fear what they think you are: a magical people who kill those who come too close. For others, you are so unimportant as to be invisible. And for too many, you have not been punished enough for rejecting the Maker. To look to you as a model for anything… No, the people would not stand for it. For reform to work, it must have support.”

“What do you think of Leliana as a candidate?”

“Leliana says she wishes to follow Justinia’s legacy, but she and I remember a different person. Justinia knew her fellow clerics- and the people- would only accept so much change. Leliana would cast it all aside and start over, I think, and that would be chaos for us all.”

Mahanon nodded glumly. It was very easy for him to agree that Andrastians’ tolerance was easy to strain past the breaking point. “I would support you.” At the look she gave him, Mahanon elaborated. “You would see people’s needs tended to in this world. That’s the most important duty of a leader.”

“Not all clerics would agree with you.”

He couldn’t hold back a snort.

“I haven’t been chosen yet.”

“And if you are?”

“Then I will do whatever I can, for as long as I can. I suppose I should not be so concerned. The clerics speak my name for now, nothing more. For now, restoring order and stopping Corypheus remain our priority.”

***

“You wanted to see me?” Mahanon asked The Iron Bull. The scenery on the ramparts was breathtakingly cold and clear but not a place he frequented without armor.

Two Inquisition soldiers attacked the Tal-Vashoth from behind. “I got it!” 

Mahanon watched as they were dispatched quickly after one scored a hit. One went over the side of the ramparts and the other went down with his own knife in him.

“Yeah, yeah my soul is dust. Yours is scattered all over the ground though so…” He grunted and gingerly touched his shoulder wound. “Sorry, boss. I thought I might need backup. Guess I’m not even worth sending professionals for.”

Looking down at the corpse and back up at The Iron Bull, Mahanon raised his eyebrows. “Will there be more?”

“Nah, this was just a formality. Letting me know that I’m Tal-Vashoth. Tal-Va-fucking-shoth,” he said heavily.

“You seem to have convinced at least six people outside the Qun that you’re a good leader. Is that worth so little?” Mahanon asked. “Or do you expect an apology?”

“No, boss. I killed hundreds of Tal-Vashoth in Seheron. Bandits and murderers, bastards who turned their back on the Qun. And now I’m one of them.”

“Yes, you are. But you were from the moment you hesitated to let your men die, weren’t you?” Mahanon scrubbed a hand across his face, a tight knot in his chest making his blood pump faster. “Tell Leliana what happened. We’ll get this cleaned up.” He nudged the corpse with a toe.

“Thanks, boss. Whatever I miss, whatever I regret, this is where I want to be.”

Mahanon kept his face down so the warrior wouldn’t see his expression. He had the chilling thought that he’d have heard the exact same words if he’d ordered the deaths of the Chargers. The Ben-Hassrath had trusted The Iron Bull. The Chargers had trusted The Iron Bull. He would not make the same mistake.

***

“All right, fine!” Dorian all but shouted as he stormed into the Inquisitor’s quarters. “I get it. People in the south disapprove of slavery.”

The Inquisitor switched from frowning at a book to frowning at Dorian. “What brought this on?”

“Cabot, the bartender, made a point of informing that you had employed some of the slaves we freed in the Hissing Wastes.”

“Yes. Not all of them had someplace to go back to. Many would only be a danger to their families.” Mahanon put in a bookmark. “I’ve been told that in Tevinter or on their own, they are vulnerable to people in your country who make their living by hunting down runaway slaves.”

“Yes, well, his story focused on the man who broke down crying over being able to buy his own beer.” Dorian paced, turning sharply between the walls.

“And? Is that an insult on your homeland?” Mahanon drew a dagger and started a dexterity exercise, propping his bare feet on his desk.

“No.” Dorian stopped and huffed out a breath. “This isn’t surprising to anyone but me is it?”

“I’m not sure everyone has considered what it would be like if slavers caught them and they didn’t have an amulet to wave at peons and make them tremble.”

“That’s not-” Dorian glared at Mahanon. “I’m trying to say you’re right!”

Mahanon dropped his knife. Diving under the desk, the Inquisitor muttered something elven.

“That response reflects poorly on me, I know.” Dorian sighed. “So long as we have slaves, all anyone will see of us is what I saw in the Hissing Wastes.”

“Better.” Mahanon stood and sat on his desk, facing Dorian. “You understand that for us, how well the slaves are treated is not the point. The slave finders, the slavers, and the man crying over being able to have beer on his own terms are more to the point. We fear being taken against our will and forced to remain far from our loved ones and chosen loyalties. Is that really not something you thought of?”

“No, it wasn’t. At home, My parents would order the cook to prepare food and I would eat with them. The slaves would not receive the same food but they would not go hungry. My parents would decide what we all had for dinner. Everyone follows the decisions of the head of the House.”

“And you left. When your father betrayed you.” Mahanon’s voice found the bruise. Dorian had been nursing for months. “You were right to leave. Can you see where others should be allowed the same choice? Why we need that choice?”

“Amatus,” Dorian said thickly.

“Dorian. Ma vhenan.” Mahanon pressed his palms together. “Without that choice, all other choices are without meaning. If you could not walk away from me, your decision to stay would be no decision. Tell me, am I wrong to say that you can love your father better for having left than if you had stayed?”

Dorian’s breath came short. He knew he should speak. He knew he should acknowledge the point. But even with what should have been enough alcohol to lubricate the answer on its exit, he froze.

Mahanon took one of Dorian’s hands in his own, opening it up to look at Dorian’s palm. His index finger crossed the callus from Dorian’s staff practice. “You told Solas that in Tevinter you had never spoken to an elf who was not a slave.”

“It never came up.” Dorian’s mouth was dry and he couldn’t meet the Inquisitor’s eyes.

“You have been curious about everyone in the Inquisition. Were the free elves of your homeland simply of no interest?”

“No.”

“Are you afraid of them?”

“What a ridiculous question.” Dorian tried to laugh. The sound had more in common with a raven’s croak than anything to do with mirth.

“Ma vhenan, if not them, then what?”

Dorian found himself frozen again, gaping like a fish on land.

After waiting what felt like hours, Mahanon snorted and turned away. “You’re drunk. Let’s go to sleep.”

“It wasn’t something I thought about.” Dorian told the back of Mahanon’s head. “I am brilliant and I’ve studied our history thoroughly and I had the best education. I knew we lost the South to a slave rebellion. And I never really considered what it meant that thousands of people would rather die than continue to be our slaves.” The laugh he’d tried to force before came boiling out. “Had I allowed my father to do his ritual, I would be on the path to becoming Archon and I still would never have contemplated it. I said Corypheus didn’t know our fall to our current state was inevitable.” He had to stop talking because he was laughing too hard.

The Inquisitor’s arms around Dorian were as firm as the hoops on a barrel, holding Dorian together while his laughter tried to shake him to pieces.

***

Sahrnia was as bleak and cold as the scouts had promised but it still pleased Mahanon more to be there than indoors. Or so he kept telling himself. The spikes of red lyrium dotting the landscape made the place as alien as the Fade but with the twisted addition of more familiar objects.

Unlike the other places the Inquisition had visited, this time he felt the need to make a speech. He pulled out a camp chair and stood on it until he had everyone’s attention. “You’ve all been doing excellent work. The Inquisition could never have accomplished what we’ve accomplished so far without your efforts. Because I want you to all be alive to celebrate with me, there is something I need to say.

Many of you have experienced cold like this in the open before but many of you have not. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the cold, don’t leave camp alone. Pair up and watch each other carefully for confusion and dizziness. If you get wet and you’re wearing wool, leave it on and run back to camp. If you’re not wearing wool, take it off and run back to camp. If you start to feel overheated and like you need to remove your clothes, let someone know because it’s probably not that you’re getting warmer. 

Do not try to prove how tough you are. You’re here and you’re alive, that’s all the proof you need. Good hunting and watch out for each other. I’m honored by your presence.” He stepped down, relief tingling through him as he stopped being able to feel their eyes.

As he trudged past the edge of town he heard Cole’s voice chanting behind him. “Smoke stinging my eyes, cold biting me. Fingers numb. It’s my turn to eat today.”

Mahanon tried not to flinch from the memory Cole was reciting.

“Master Midarian puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘You’re a brave boy. Your parents would be proud. This spring, be my apprentice.’ Arguing with the Keeper he says, ‘There’s too many. We can’t feed them all.’ She says, ‘They came to us because we represent a promise. If we dishonor that promise, we may as well go live in the alienages.’”

“Most of them returned to the alienages anyway,” Mahanon said in a rusty voice, continuing to walk. “Life among the Dalish meant too much time being cold, wet, and hungry.”

“Yes, but that’s not what hurts you. You became a Hunter that day. You feel like you’re failing them by being here. But you know if you aren’t here, they won’t be protected. And you know that if you were there, there might be nothing for you to do but die with them.” Cole sounded almost querulous at the tangle.

“Yes. That sums it up quite neatly. Thank you, Cole,” Mahanon said dryly.

“You fear that they are being punished because you are not devout enough.” Cole continued in that puzzled voice. “But you believe your gods are gone and can no longer influence the world.”

“Fear is irrational that way.” Mahanon turned back to look at Cassandra and Solas, daring them to comment. Solas was inscrutable and Cassandra looked frustrated. “It was a very bad winter.”

“I can’t make you forget. It’s tied too tightly to how you feel about what we’re doing now. I’d tear it.” Cole pleaded.

“It’s fine, Cole,” Solas said, sound weary and almost grieved himself.

As they camped that night in a Red Templar position, surrounded by spikes of red lyrium generating their own peculiar heat, Mahanon approached Cassandra and waited for her to speak.

“What I said about your home not being the same if you went back, that was more cruel than I thought it was.” Cassandra looked directly at him.

“I’ll live,” Mahanon said wryly.

“Nevarra was never what I thought it was. I thought showing you the works of the Maker, you might eventually take Him into your heart. My faith does not require you to do so but I thought- It doesn’t matter. I did not know you well enough to say such things.” Cassandra frowned heavily.

“I consider you a friend now,” Mahanon said quietly.

“I am glad.” Cassandra’s shoulders relaxed and the corners of her mouth turned up in a smile.

“I, as well.” Mahanon returned her smile. “I did not expect to find friends here.” He meant it even as he knew that they would both do whatever they must.

***

“Daisy!” Varric called as Merrill entered the courtyard.

“Varric!”

It had been too many months since he’d been hugged by Merrill and this one seemed unending. “Thank you for making this trip.”

“Your letter didn’t explain much,” she said, easing her grip slowly. “I thought you didn’t approve of my mirror.”

“I don’t. Even less now that we have a fully functional one here.” Varric grumbled as he stepped back and a couple of Inquisition scouts began the process of loading Merrill’s mirror up the stairs.

“An Eluvian that works! Here?” Merrill’s eyes grew wide with delight.

“You… might not like the person who owns it.” Varric said more diffidently.

“Owns it? Don’t be silly. No one can own an Eluvian.” She caught Varric’s pointed look at her broken mirror. “I don’t own it. I keep it.”

“I don’t think she’ll agree with that description. She’s human.” Varric told her almost under his breath. “The Inquisitor wanted an opinion from one of his people.”

“Does he know I’m an outcast?” The tears under the edge of Merrill’s words cut Varric.

“Yes but he’s… he’s elfier than you might expect a man called the Herald of Andraste to be.” Varric grunted. “And Morrigan is about as elfy as my boots.”

“Morrigan. My people have heard of her. A daughter of Asha’bellanar. She thinks to claim my people’s artifacts?” There was an unmistakably angry note in Merrill’s voice.

“And that’s why I think you and the Inquisitor will get along well. Maybe too well.” Varric sighed.

“Our people’s history is not for others to take and keep from us.” Merrill said firmly.

Varric caught sight of Loranil and waved him over. “Merrill, this is Loranil. Cullen has agreed to spare him to be your assistant.”

“Andaran’atishan,” Loranil greeted.

“Andaran’atishan, da’len.” Merrill returned.

Varric left them chattering after wrestling out a promise Merrill would play cards with him later. Returning to his accustomed place by the fire, he found Madame Vivienne glaring at him as if she’d like to shred him to pieces down to the smallest blot of matter. “What can I do for you today?”

“When I told the Inquisitor the apostate bore watching, I did not intend for him to gather yet another.” She said coldly.

“He’s Dalish. If you didn’t see that coming,” Varric snorted, “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“I can’t help but notice that this is another one of your friends cozying up to the Inquisitor. Last time it cost us a brave Grey Warden. I wonder what the cost will be this time.”

Raised voices floated out of the garden. Or rather, a single raised voice that was obviously Morrigan bellowing and Mother Giselle trying to play peacemaker to an atheist. “Think of it this way, now you’re both unhappy.”

***

“Are you seriously attempting to read that?” Dorian asked Mahanon incredulously.

“Research,” Mahanon said, pulling the book out of Dorian’s reach and closer to the campfire.

“From a romance novel.”

“I am not familiar with human courtship rituals.” Mahanon said defensively. “I don’t want to keep asking for advice. Varric gets this strange look on his face.”

“You ask Varric for relationship advice.” Dorian said in the same disbelieving tone.

“Do you think I’d be better off asking Ambassador Montilyet?” Mahanon asked pointedly.

“No. You could ask me.”

“Alright. Dorian, how should I go about courting you?” Mahanon raised his eyebrows. “At what point do we talk about previous people we’ve been with? How do I bring up things I’d like to try?”

“I thought you said your people were forthright and not squeamish.” Dorian wore a strained smile.

“Mine, yes. From what you’ve said, yours believe life is too important to be taken seriously. Especially matters of the heart.”

“Ah.”

“And so yes, I will read this book about these two,” Mahanon broke off to make an incoherent growling noise, “people who can’t even recognize each other naked because they’re wearing masks. Because if I ask you, I might end up talking about Antivan rugs all night.”

“You might have a point. Alright, what do you want to know?”

“I realize there’s a very small chance I’ll meet any of them, but in case I do, what do I need to watch out for from people you’ve had sex with?” Mahanon asked.

“You know, there’s a difference between forthright and rude.”

“Dorian.”

“Fine, yes. Not much. There was some sweaty palmed fumbling with my classmates at Vyrantium. Some sex with the same at parties when I was slightly older. One or two that were friends but the friendship means more than the sex. I’d be introducing them as friends and informing you beforehand about the nature of our friendship if I’m aware of the meeting. After being certified as a mage I widened my tastes beyond Vyrantium to other Circles. Cole has mentioned Relienus in your hearing? He’s the only one I’d… Well. The only one I’d label an ex. Is that enough? What about you?”

“Rahne and I nearly went through the bonding ceremony but she and I parted amicably.” Mahanon said. “I enjoyed the company of several people at Clan Meet. It is doubtful I fathered any children there. There was another Hunter with a Clan we met a few years back. We stayed in the same region for a few weeks and I came to know him quite well. Athion. Had it been closer to when Rahne and I broke things off, I might have followed them. But it was not and I did not.” Mahanon looked at the fire.

“You do enjoy the company of women, then?”

Mahanon huffed a half amused breath. “Yes. Very much.” After a moment of silence he flicked more words into the air. “My people value faithfulness within a Clan. Clan Meets are different. In daily living with one another, it is best to be clear about expectations. Behaviors that provoke jealousy, encourage people to take sides, these are to be avoided. And I told you, I have had sex without attachment, it is still not my preference.”

“Thank you, amatus.” Dorian braced himself and put his hand on Mahanon’s knee. He relaxed when the elf covered his hand with his own. “Now anything else or can you put the book away?”

“When I took Cole to Val Royeaux, we went to a restaurant. According to him the maitre d’ very much wanted his wife to tie him up with silk ribbons but was afraid she’d hate him. Do people normally hate their spouses over such harmless things?”

***

Morrigan ambushed Mahanon as he walked into the hall. “Inquisitor! I need a moment of your time!”

Mahanon made his excuses and went out into the garden. It was a lovely, clear day and the garden had been cleared to make more room for herbs. He took a deep breath of the pleasantly fragrant air and turned to face Morrigan’s rage. “Yes, Lady Morrigan?”

“You invited a Dalish mage here with a broken Eluvian.”

“It’s my fortress, I can invite whomever I choose to stay here.” Mahanon reminded her.

“Be that as it may, you cannot predict how having two Eluvians so close together will affect each other.”

“And how do they affect each other?” Mahanon asked mildly.

“Hers will not affect mine in its current state.” Morrigan admitted. “It is not merely broken, it is corrupted by the Blight. She has explained to me how it killed two members of her Clan. It is… fascinating.”

“Is there anything else?”

“No, Inquisitor. I simply wished to inform you of my displeasure.” 

“Then I have other business to attend to. We will move on the Arbor Wilds soon, Lady Morrigan. Your help is much appreciated.”

“You do not trust me,” she sighed. “It is as well.”

“Lady Morrigan, you are a shemlen woman with an artifact of Elvhenan. Empress Celene had a surprising store of such. You are fresh from her Court. No, I do not trust you with my people’s history. I would be a fool to do so.” He turned and left.

***

Dorian had grown accustomed to the longer hours Mahanon was spending with Merrill and Loranil. He told himself he was not jealous. Loranil was a child by Mahanon’s way of looking at things and Mahanon did not fully trust Merrill because she had been ejected from her Clan.

He was lost in such thoughts when he heard Mahanon’s bare feet slapping on the stairs as he raced up. Dorian was about to put a book back on the shelf when Mahanon’s body slammed full speed into his and the elf wrapped his arms tightly around him. Mahanon’s mouth was on his in a kiss that was hard and lasted only a moment as Dorian yelped.

“They’re alive!” Mahanon’s eyes danced with joy as he released Dorian. “Sorry, I know you don’t like this in public. But, they’re alive! Cullen’s people did it!”

Dorian gave his amatus a dazed look. The Inquisitor’s grin looked fit to crack his face. “Your Clan? That is excellent news.”

“And Wycome has set up a Council. Human merchants, a city elf, and Keeper Istimaethoriel! It’s everything she could have hoped for.” Mahanon enthused. “If I go back, I will need to bring her something to congratulate her.” His face fell. “When I go back.” He looked up and saw something in Dorian’s expression. “I never mentioned that, did I? My duties as Inquisitor mean I ought to withdraw from Clan Lavellan. There is a ceremony and-” He choked and whispered, “they’re alive.”

“What happens when you withdraw?” Dorian asked, trying to keep the speed of his heart to himself.

“I stop being a Lavellan. I do the ceremony come back here…” He flexed his marked hand. “But if I die fighting Corypheus, I want to die a Lavellan. Is that selfish?”

“Probably.” Dorian said past the lump in his throat. “But what is life without a little selfishness. Try not to die though. I would be very put out.”

Mahanon went on his tip toes and kissed Dorian again, in full view of the library.

“What will you be when you’re not a Lavellan? Will you go by a different name?” Dorian asked, trying and failing to sound normal.

“My family name, Istimaethoriel.”

“Inquisitor Istimaethoriel has a nice ring to it,” Dorian said quietly.

Hopping from one foot to another, Mahanon’s face went through a few contortions of grief, sadness, and fear before the elation came back. “Try not to die yourself. I’d miss you.” He grabbed Dorian’s right hand, kissed the palm, and sped off down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I played Dragon Age II, the little we saw of Tevinter reminded me of the Byzantine Empire. If the Southern Chantry is Roman Catholicism, then Tevinter is Eastern Orthodox with the same reasoning (was the Savior born divine or achieve divinity?) and they have their own Popes who have excommunicated each other.
> 
> So I approached Dragon Age: Inquisition already expecting to find the lore describing Byzantine culture and I don't see any of the lore provided by the game contradicting that interpretation. I acknowledge that until clarified by the game developers, other interpretations are equally valid.
> 
> I'll provide more complete notes at the end of the fic including more of the way I'm applying this to the subtext (especially with regards to Halward and Alexius) and where Tevinter is more like Rome and why I chose Byzantine social mores anyway.
> 
> The part that's relevant for this chapter is this:
> 
> In Byzantine culture everything was about public appearances. So long as a person was in favor, they could pretty much do whatever they wanted. Compulsory heterosexual behaviors like marriage and getting heirs, if that was what was expected of one's station, might be necessary to stay in favor. Once a person was out of favor, they were pretty much dead. In terms of same sex couples the logic ran something like this:
> 
> Sex between two people of the same sex = if they maintained plausible deniability, then no one much cared
> 
> A relationship between two people of the same sex = scandal (this could vary in size from "Pffft, how quaint!" to literal executions depending on the rank, social standing, and factions of the parties involved). 
> 
> Except for when one of the parties is a personal slave the other party owns. Traveling with one's pleasure slaves was generally considered gauche. The slaves most likely to be in a relationship with their same-sex owner were valets/lady's maids and occasionally secretaries. They were the slaves most likely to be seen as real people if any slaves in the household were. When Brother Genitivi writes, “actively encouraged with favored slaves,” I interpret him to mean these valets and ladies’ maids. Many slaves were vulnerable to pressure from the people who socially outranked them. This could include sending slaves to seduce people, to find blackmail material, or to plant evidence for a scandal. Fellow members of the nobility were likely to have a hidden agenda or conflicting loyalties. Slaves who were positioned close to their owners had the greatest protection from coercion from other nobles and their loyalties would be allied with their owners and so they were seen as a safe option.
> 
> Until a person moved into their own household, their valet/lady's maid would belong to the House and would ultimately answer to and possibly report to the Paterfamilias.
> 
> Source: [A graduate with a history degree and a specialization in Crusader era Europe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/booknerdguru/pseuds/booknerdguru%22)


	6. What Pride Had Wrought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anything about this seems wrong, ignorant, or out of place, then I'd like to discuss it.

Mahanon took his time as he sat in the throne and waited for Mistress Poulin to be brought before him. As he did every time he sat in judgment, Mahanon contemplated the wisdom of Mythal. Judgment was a matter of both love and justice. Justice was harsh and without remorse. Love was required to know when to stop. Though love could also be remorseless and demanding.

“Mistress Poulin of Sahrnia is accused of aiding and abetting the Red Templars in the Dales,” Josephine read. “She sold a quarry to them for a handsome sum. They used the the quarry to grow red lyrium by enslaving townspeople. The only extenuating circumstance: Mistress Poulin was procuring supplies to keep the remaining townspeople fed.”

The woman standing judgment, stared down at her feet, her shoulders slumped with defeat. In that moment, she reminded him of Keeper Istimaethoriel.

“I have heard your explanation for your actions,” Mahanon said wearily. “That the Red Templars would have taken the quarry from you by force had you failed to sell it, I grant is true. Your people were dying of cold and hunger. I am familiar with the tricks that can play on judgment. Still, people, people of yours, are dead. Many of them met that death in agony after being traded to the Red Templars by you. That requires a response.” He sighed. “Mistress Poulin, you will spend any profit you received from the mine rebuilding Sahrnia. If the loved ones of the people you betrayed forgive you, then so does the Inquisition.”

“Your worship,” the old woman bobbed. “I will do my best to repair what I have done.” The guards unlocked her shackles.

***

The Arbor Wilds was a pocket of unusual warmth and humidity in the south. Mahanon had never been to any place like it. The air was thick with the scent of decay and growth. Birds he had never imagined before chattered among the trees.

The only difficulty was the army he needed to force his way through. They were loud, smelly, and had never attempted to journey through such brush before. The going was slower than Mahanon would have liked. The chevaliers needed to stop frequently to drink water to replace what they sweated out in their heavy armor. Scouts came back with exotic collections of insect bites. Lush, verdant growth narrowed trails and the roots reached from the ground to destroy footing for mounts. It only took a few days for the fungal infections to begin to hamper their progress too.

Such difficult conditions inspired greater reliance on the clergy traveling with them and Mahanon was ducking into the brush with increasing frequency to mumble a quick prayer and apology for the likely desecration that was coming. He knew no way to stop such a large, insistent force from claiming whatever remnants of Elvhenan they found. The only shred of justification he had was that whatever the shemlen of the Inquisition and its allies did, it would not be as bad as what Corypheus planned.

But at last they were camped and ready for the final push to Corypheus’s objective. The Commander’s beloved trebuchets were lined up and bombarding the enemy. Pitched battle was joined on the uneven slopes and twisting trails.

“Inquisitor!”

“Hoes goes the battle, captain?” Mahanon acknowledged the woman.

“We’re holding, barely. The Red Templars are fighting harder than ever with their master nearby. Our scouts saw Corypheus traveling toward an elven ruin to the north. We can clear you a path through his armies.”

Mahanon cocked his head to listen to the distant sounds of battle. “Don’t use any more lives than you have to.”

“We will not fail you, my lord. No matter what comes.”

The words sent a cold tingle down Mahanon’s spine but he stood straight anyway and gave his captain a nod.

“Andraste guide you, Inquisitor.” She bowed and left Mahanon trying not to scream in her wake.

Here of all places, he wanted not to be bothered with the trappings of Andrastianism. He wanted to soak in the place of his ancestors and fight those who would use his heritage to shake the world to pieces. Not be reminded again and again that his presence was only tolerated because he could close rifts. If he were not the Inquisitor would they think to consult with the Dalish? He thought not.

Morrigan arrived on his left. “I wonder: is it Andraste your soldiers invoke during battle, or does a more immediate name come to their lips?”

“Creators, I hope not,” Mahanon said sincerely. He shuddered with unfeigned disgust. “I have no need of worshippers.”

“You may have them regardless… but I digress. If your scouts report accurately, I believe these ruins to be the Temple of Mythal.”

The smile that grew on his face was so wide it ached. “Truly?” Even the series of explosions behind him barely faded the blood rushing in his ears at the thought of finding one of the ancient sites where his patron goddess had been worshipped.

“Let us hope we reach this temple before the entire forest is reduced to ash.” Morrigan said sharply.

Mahanon nodded and made the rounds of people whose help he needed to acknowledge. He remained polite to Empress Celene even though he knew she would be itching to have her scholars pore over his people’s ruins. The thought that he would get there first and see it before shemlen had a chance to claim it, made the process bearable.

“Inquisitor, a moment of your time?” One of the Revered Mothers dancing attendance on the Empress called.

“I do not speak your language!” Mahanon shouted in his own language and jumped behind a row of tents, rolling to where his party waited for him.

“Very subtle, amatus.”

“You know, if you add a smoke grenade it’d be much more distracting,” The Iron Bull shouted from where he was conferring with Leliana.

Pulling a face at Dorian, Mahanon led the way into the forest. Solas, Morrigan, Merrill, and Dorian followed him into a tree trunk and down into a series of checkpoints interspersed with blood, red lyrium, and sharp pieces of metal. He fell into a rhythm of dodging and stabbing that carried him north toward the temple.

As they neared the temple, strange figures that weren’t with the Inquisition or the Red Templars began popping in and out of fights. “We’re here to fight the Red Templars, not you!” he shouted in elven.

Merrill repeated his words in a slightly different dialect.

“They do not appear to care,” Solas noted blandly as he smacked one with ice.

“It’s such a waste,” Merrill said softly.

“I’m the only one who doesn’t understand this conversation, aren’t I?” There was an edge to Dorian’s voice.

Mahanon cut the throat of an elf and glared at the trees, trying again. “The elves are here to protect the ruin from everyone including us, it seems,” he told Dorian crisply.

The entrance to the temple itself was long and the shadows seemed deeper for the noon sun streaming in on the far side. The cool stones underfoot were covered in a fine layer of grit with an obvious trail through it. The walls were covered in thick tangles of vine and the stonework was rainwashed and faded. The structure was as grand as Skyhold.

Crouching low, Mahanon peeked over a stone railing to see Corypheus surrounded by a small bodyguard of Grey Wardens. Beside him, Samson was wearing heavy armor of red lyrium. The armor was so impressive Mahanon almost failed to notice how shrunken and grey Samson looked.

“Na melana sur, banallen!” croaked an elven sentinel.

“They still think to fight us, master,” Samson said, his greasy hair almost gleaming in the sun.

The monster cast aside an elven corpse as if it were a rag doll. Mahanon could feel his own feet leaving the ground again as he was hoisted by his left arm. That would not happen again he promised himself, tightening his grip on his knives.

Corypheus advanced on the half dozen remaining elves. “These are but remnants. They will not keep us from the Well of Sorrows.”

“Well of Sorrows?” Mahanon asked Morrigan through gritted teeth. Of course the witch merely shrugged.

The statues on either side of the bridge began to glow with blue light as Corypheus approached. An eldritch humming filled the air.

“Be honored! Witness death at the hands of a new god!” Corypheus intoned grandiosely. As he stepped into the space between the statues, they shot him with beams of fire. In seconds, Corypheus was nothing more than a greasy smear on the stones. The elves on the bridge were blown back by the blast of the magister’s combustion.

Mahanon led his party down to the bridge’s level, surveying the crumbling stonework and corpses. Down the length of the bridge, Mahanon could just make out Samson’s sneer as the templar turned to check his back.

Following his gaze, Mahanon and Morrigan turned to see one of the Grey Wardens spasming unnaturally. Gouts of corrupted black fluid jetted from the Warden’s orifices and wounds. With a hideous crunching and groaning, an arm shot free. An arm Mahanon recognized from his nightmares.

“It cannot be,” Morrigan cried convincingly, stepping back in horror.

“Across the bridge! Now!” Mahanon began racing the direction Samson had gone.

The archdemon screamed its metallic screech as it swooped toward them. All together, they heaved the doors on the far side shut as a blast of fire licked toward them. The doors glowed golden and hummed in an ominous way. Staggering, Mahanon turned to survey the courtyard.

It was a beautiful mess of cracked stone and trailing plants. The strange trees of the Arbor Wilds grew in profusion among mats of arbor’s blessing while nodding blooms of embrium poked up at irregular intervals.

“At last, Mythal’s sanctum,” Morrigan said hungrily. “Let us proceed before Corypheus intervenes.”

“This place is amazing,” Merrill chirped. “What do you think he meant by ‘Well of Sorrows?’”

“I… am uncertain of what he referred to.” Morrigan hesitated.

“Is that another term for eluvian?” Mahanon asked.

“No,” Merrill said firmly. “If they were sorrowful it’d be a bird, a messenger. Or gate. Gate to sorrows? Why would anyone use an eluvian called that?”

“It seems an eluvian is not the prize Corypheus seeks,” Morrigan admitted. “Yes, I was wrong! Does that please you?” Morrigan shouted at Mahanon’s skeptical face. “Whatever the Well of Sorrows might be, Corypheus seeks it, and thus you must keep it from his grasp.”

Mahanon grunted in disgust and turned away from Morrigan to look at the bulk of the main building thrusting skyward. “Very well. We have work to do. Any suggestions on how to kill Corypheus?”

“His life force passed on to the nearest blighted creature,” Morrigan said thoughtfully.

“Then Corypheus cannot die. Destroy his body and he will assume another,” Solas said in horror.

“Tis strange. Archdemons possess the same ability, and still the Grey Wardens are able to slay them.” Morrigan mused. “Yet Corypheus they locked away. Perhaps they knew he could do this… but not how.”

Mahanon listened with half an ear as he followed a path through the courtyard. He stopped as his feet touched a paving stone that sand and glowed blue under him. A smile of wonder spread over his face as he felt the vines carved into the tile with the soles of his feet.

“It appears the temple’s magicks are still strong,” Morrigan observed as she joined him on the platform. Merrill and Solas pressed close behind them.

“Atish’all vir abelasan,” Solas read over Mahanon’s shoulder. “It means ‘enter the path of the well of sorrows.’”

“There is something about knowledge... respectful or pure. Shiven, shivennen….” Morrigan stared at the stone. “Tis all I can translate. That it mentions the well is a good omen.”

“It’s much prettier in elven,” Merrill said. “Only those who are pure in purpose can walk the path and gain the boon of the wisdom of Mythal by making the sweet sacrifice of duty. Or maybe it’s pure in mind? Some old texts refer to the mind as the seat of magic. That when we sleep the Fade twists by our purpose, our mind’s contents. It might be talking about a connection to the Fade. That is what Corypheus wants, isn’t it?”

“The part about sacrifice sounds rather ominous,” Dorian noted.

“It’s probably not literal,” Mahanon said, touching the stone reverently. “Our vallaslin are a sacrifice of blood and pain. Have you ever known a religion that could avoid wrapping the sacred in metaphor? When Cassandra speaks of feeling the light of Andraste, does she mean a light such as a fire makes or an invisible feeling of light? This place was not for shemlen. It’s not even for all of The People. Mythal is a powerful goddess and presides over love and justice but she is not kind. She is stern and sometimes if you ask her for justice, she gives you more than you thought you requested. If one asks her for love one may discover just how unyielding her love can be. Whoever walked this path would have been desperate enough or certain enough to find that chance worth it.”

The scowl that had begun when Merrill started talking spread across Morrigan’s face, tightening the corners of her eyes and mouth into a hard sneer. “If we’re done discussing ancient fairy tales, perhaps we should focus on the task at hand,” she snapped. “Her supplicants would have made obeisance here. Following their path may aid entry.”

Mahanon tuned out the others’ voice as he murmured a prayer under his breath and followed the path. On each tile he contemplated an aspect of Mythal and prayed to her for guidance. As he had been taught, he did not expect a reply. The goal of such prayers was to focus the mind, not beg for attention the way Andrastians did. At the end that was the beginning, the path glowed blue as a whole song. He felt a little emptier, his worries a little quieter. He touched the inscription again and murmured his thanks to Mythal. Straightening, he caught Solas looking at him with a mixture of grief and anger.

Realizing he’d been seen, Solas turned away.

Mounting the stairs to the large doors, Mahanon paused briefly to bump Dorian with his shoulder before dashing upward. Exploring the upper level, Mahanon stopped in front of a large statue of Fen’Harel. It was odd to see one in the middle of a structure rather than on the edges but it was unmistakably a Dread Wolf.

“Why would this be here?” Morrigan asked in the tone of someone finding cheese where they had expected to find flowers.

“Something wrong?” Mahanon asked, looking around to see what caused her reaction.

“It depicts the dread Wolf, Fen’Harel.”

“Yes, I know.” Mahanon said, waiting for her to explain. “There are many of these in the Dales.”

“In elven tales he tricks-”

“Yes, yes,” Mahanon grunted irritably. “He tricks the gods and the Forgotten Ones into their prisons, sealing them from our world. I have heard the story a time or two. My Clan puts his statue at the edge of camp to scare away bad spirits. He has been revered by The People for a very long time.” He gave her a sharp look.

“Perhaps. I thought the ancient elves above quaint superstitions.” Morrigan sounded disappointed.

“For all your ‘knowledge’, Lady Morrigan, you cannot resist giving legend the weight of history,” Solas said, a mix of tiredness and scorn coloring his voice. “The wise do not mistake one for the other.”

“Pray tell, what meaning does our elven ‘expert’ sense lurking behind this?”

“None we can discern by staring at it,” Solas responded.

“This isn’t really my area of study,” Merrill said meekly as she followed Mahanon around to the opposite balcony. “I’m more old books and ancient mirrors and things.”

“The Temple of Mythal,” Morrigan announced grandly. “Constructed in an age when elves, not men, dominated this land.”

“Before the Imperium destroyed it,” Dorian said miserably.

The large, double doors at the top of the stairs glowed the same blue as the pilgrim path at the foot of the stairs. The room beyond was cool and dark, fallen stones making the floor uneven. He carefully crossed into another large, sunny courtyard.

Samson stood ahead of them on balcony, flanking him were the deformed shapes of Red Templars. Just as they arrived, a series of explosions sounded off. Samson and the templars turned toward Mahanon. Samson’s smirk was obvious but somehow Mahanon could still feel the lesser creatures leering predatorily at him.

“Hold them off!” Samson shouted. Archers appeared from behind columns Mahanon had been too focused on Samson to notice. He drew has daggers and grinned at them all. The fight was swift and bloody as spells flew around Mahanon and he distracted the hunched, hideous mutants from approaching the mages.

When the courtyard was clear, Mahanon took a moment to affirm that everyone was still standing before rushing to where he had seen Samson. A large hole had been blown in the floor of the Temple. He knew he shouldn’t be surprised the shemlen had no respect for Mythal or her sacred space but it still made his pulse pound in his ears. A floor that had stood for millennia and seen the coming and going of countless petitioners was destroyed on the whim of an invader who had no right.

“Hold a moment,” Morrigan said breathlessly. “While they rush ahead, this leads to our true destination.” She gestured at a set of doors. “We should walk the petitioner’s path, as before.”

“Just a thought, maybe rushing through this place like a mad bull isn’t the best plan?” Dorian said, eyeing the hole.

“And your plan?” Mahanon asked Morrigan suspiciously.

She pointed and Mahanon followed her that direction. “Legends walked Thedas once,” she said. “Things of might and wonder. Their passing has left us all the lesser. Corypheus would squander the ancient power of the well. I would have it restored.”

“Very pretty,” Mahanon said. “How?”

“Mankind blunders through the world, crushing what it does not understand; elves, dragons, magic… the list is endless. We must stem the tide or be left with nothing more than the mundane. This I know to be true.”

“You want the power of the well.”

“Yes! If that is the only way to preserve it. My priority is your cause but if the opportunity arises to save this well, I am willing to pay the cost.”

“And what do you think the wisdom of Mythal entails?”

“That is what we must discover.” Morrigan said cagily. “The rituals may point the way.”

Mahanon grunted and went exploring amidst the pale stone and overgrown gardens. There was something about the place that soothed his fears and centered him on the moment. He approached the pilgrim’s paths the same way he had before. He murmured prayers and contemplated the lessons of Mythal as he walked trails that twisted and turned but never doubled back. The ending was always beside the beginning but the moment was not the same. So the world changed. Forward and around but never backward. All obstacles could be overcome. All decisions determined future choices. Right or left did not matter except that they changed where the next step must be taken. Always another step must be taken. Life was a series of choices made with the knowledge that the choices would end when life did.

In between, he marveled openly at the mosaics and stonework. There were statues he almost recognized but were rendered in such an opulent style that he wasn’t quite sure. “Who was this meant to be?”

“Falon’Din, overseer of funerals and guide to the elven dead,” Morrigan answered. “I have heard the Dalish invoke him on their deathbed, or before quests from which they expect no return.”

“The Keeper blessed us in his name when we fought bandits.” Mahanon said.

“I do not believe they sing songs about Falon’Din’s vanity,” Solas said disapprovingly.

“Do you know any legends?” Hope and curiosity pulled Mahanon’s attention to Solas.

“It is said Falon’Din’s appetite for adulation was so great, he began wars to amass more worshippers. The blood of those who wouldn’t bow low filled lakes as wide as oceans. Mythal rallied the gods once the shadow of Falon’Din’s hunger stretched across her own people. It was almost too late. Falon’Din only surrendered when his brethren bloodied him in his own temple.” Solas spoke with a distant sadness and anger as if he were reliving it in the Fade all over again.

“I’ve never heard that version before.” Mahanon said.

“It’s fascinating,” Merrill nodded along. 

“The further the Dalish spread, the further their stories branch and grow. Never mistake them for arbiters of ‘true’ elven culture.” Solas said with weary finality.

Merrill looked between Morrigan, Solas, and Mahanon with big eyes. “I wonder how they managed to get it to stay so shiny.”

“That I do not know,” Solas admitted.

“What about this one?” Mahanon asked, pointing at a gleaming statue.

“I believe we are in the presence of the elven goddess Andruil,” Morrigan answered.

“Ah, goddess of the hunt,” Dorian put in. “Even I know that.” He sighed when everyone turned to stare at him. “But do go on.”

“Or a goddess of sacrifice,” Solas said a little more firmly than necessary, “according to some.”

“Truly?” Morrigan said in a tone both interested and annoyed. “I wonder if that is why Andruil’s patron animal is the hare. Tis said the Dalish invoke her before a chase. Especially if they happen to be stalking humans.”

“My Clan doesn’t do that,” Mahanon said, frowning awkwardly.

“Why would we stalk humans?” Merrill asked. “Do they taste good? I thought they’d be a bit gamey and stringy.”

The beginnings of a grin started to find its way to Mahanon’s face.

“Don’t.” Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t say it.”

“I wasn’t going to and now I don’t need to.” Mahanon said, grinning widely.

“Vishante kaffas.” Dorian sighed as they walked through the doors into a cavernous hall lit by torches and braziers. The tiling was the same as the work surrounding the pilgrims’ paths but indoors and intact. They were clean and unbroken, a shade of yellow Mahanon found awe inspiring. Winged statues glared sightlessly from the corners of the room. Far above Mahanon, rose a stage of carved white stone. It’s front gleamed with metal that had the patina of great age.

“Tis not what I expected. What was this chamber used for…” Morrigan’s boots clicked on the tile. 

“We’re being watched,” Mahanon shrugged his itching shoulders. Turning, he saw a row of elves marked with vallaslin like his own, holding bows that matched their armor and reflected the dancing light of the fires. Above him, a solitary figure stalked the edge of the stage. The shine of his armor reminded Mahanon of the statues outside.

“Venavis,” the man called down to them. “You… are unlike the other invaders. You have the features of those who call themselves Elvhen. You bear the mark of magic which is... familiar. How has this come to pass? What is your connection to those who first disturbed our slumber?”

“As I tried to tell your people in the forest, they are my enemies. I come here only because they do, to prevent them from finding whatever they seek. I was told,” he slid a look to Morrigan, “that this was likely an eluvian. It seems we were mistaken.”

“I am called Abelas. We are sentinels, tasked with standing against those who trespass on sacred ground. We wake only to fight, to preserve this place. Our numbers diminish with each invasion. I know what you seek. Like all who have come before, you wish to drink from the Vir’Abelasan.”

“‘The place of the way of sorrows.’ He speaks of the well!” Morrigan whispered enthusiastically..

“We know,” Merrill murmured more quietly.

“It is not for you,” Abelas said grimly. “It is not for any of you.”

“So… you’re elves from ancient times? Before the Tevinter Imperium destroyed Arlathan?” Mahanon asked eagerly.

“The shemlen did not destroy Arlathan,” Abelas corrected. “We elvhen warred upon ourselves. By the time the doors to this sanctuary closed, our time was over. We awaken only when called, and each time find the world more foreign than before. It is meaningless. We endure. The Vir’Abelasan must be preserved.”

“What did the Imperium do then?” Dorian burst out. “Are you saying it wasn’t a war?”

“The war of carrion feasting upon a corpse, yes.” Abelas answered.

Mahanon exchanged a look with Dorian. “What is it exactly?” he asked more cautiously.

“It is a path, walked only by those who toiled in Mythal’s favor.”

“He speaks of priests, perhaps?” Morrigan guessed.

“More than that you need not know.” Abelas said from his vantage.

“Our people have lost everything,” Merrill said. “We are driven from our own holy sites, our own history. You could help us get some of it back!”

“‘Our people?’ The ones we see in the forest, shadows wearing vallaslin? You are not our people.” Abelas waved his hand in a negating gesture.

Mahanon and Merrill stood a little closer together under Abelas’s glare.

“And you have invaded our sanctum as readily as the shemlen,” Abelas continued.

“We know this place is sacred,” Mahanon said, unable to hide the hurt in his tone. “We have followed the rituals as best we can with the knowledge we possess. I would follow Mythal’s will better if I knew how.”

“I believe you.” Abelas nodded finally. “Trespassers you are, but you have followed rites of petition. You have shown respect to Mythal. If these others are enemies of yours, we will aid you in destroying them. When this is done, you shall be permitted to depart… and never return.”

“I’ll admit the idea of fighting the last of their kind… does not thrill me,” Dorian said.

“This is our goal, is it not?” Solas urged vehemently. “There is no reason to fight these sentinels.”

“Consider carefully,” Morrigan whispered. “You must stop Corypheus, yes, but you may also need the well for your own.”

“Please don’t ask me to kill them,” Merrill whispered.

“I accept your offer,” Mahanon told Abelas.

“You will be guided to those you seek,” Abelas affirmed. “As for the Vir’Abelasan… it shall not be despoiled. Even if I must destroy it myself.” He turned to leave.

“No!” Morrigan cried in horror and with a blast of purple fire burst into the form of a bird.

“Morrigan!” Mahanon shouted but she was already winging after Abelas. Looking around the vaulted hall, he saw the other sentinels had lowered their weapons. At a closer inspection, many of them bore a curiously strong resemblance to Solas. An older woman was waiting beside a set of doors that led away from the courtyard he’d entered from. “This would be our guide?” he guessed.

“Mythal’enaste,” she greeted them and began limping away.

“That’s helpful. Since Morrigan ran off on her own.” Mahanon followed the woman up a flight of steps flanked by more winged statues.

“She seeks to protect the Well of Sorrows.” Solas’s bare feet made hardly any sound on the stone floor.

Mahanon drifted from their guide’s side, to the woman’s obvious annoyance, more than once. Whenever he heard fighting, he searched for a way toward it. The idea of leaving these people to fight and possibly die on his enemies’ weapons filled him with a sense of dread and loss. There were rooms filled with gold and rooms with reflection pools and rooms with more winged statues. On more than one occasion he found lost veilfire runes on the walls that neither he nor Merrill could make sense of.

Before they left the maze of corridors and rooms, the woman opened a chamber with a weapons cache. He thanked her, uncertain if he should repeat the blessing back to her or if she would take offense.

“Go with purpose,” Merrill said in elven as they walked back into sunlight. The air seemed strangely empty without the shuffle and thump of the woman’s cane.

Samson was shouting in the distance and looking at him, all Mahanon could feel was pity. The Chantry took boys and girls and fed them with stories of their own valor until they were old enough to be fed lyrium. Then their addiction was held over them. He would never be able to think calmly of the templars, but Samson was not truly a templar anymore. And with the rune Dagna had made, he was barely even a threat.

Mahanon stood over Samson’s unconscious body and murmured a prayer under his breath. “Cullen will want to talk to him,” Mahanon said aloud. 

A flash of movement caught his attention. A crow was flying the same direction as an elf bounding up a staircase made of magic. Mahanon took a deep breath and began running after them. He could see the magic moving the stones to form the steps and prayed they wouldn’t snap back once Abelas was done with them. He reached the top of the stairs as Morrigan landed and shifted back into her human guise. 

“You heard his parting words, Inquisitor. The elf seeks to destroy the Well of Sorrows!”

Abelas turned toward Mahanon. “So the sanctum is defiled at last.”

“You would have destroyed the Well yourself, given the chance,” Morrigan accused as Mahanon circled to her side.

“To keep it from your grasping fingers! Better it be lost than bestowed upon the undeserving!”

“Fool! You’d let your people’s legacy rot in the shadows!”

“Corypheus needed Samson to use the Well. Without him, there’s no ‘vessel’ to claim it.” Mahanon said soothingly. 

“The moment we leave, he will send more forces to secure this place. The Well clearly offers power, Inquisitor. If that power can be turned against Corypheus, can you afford not to use it?”

Abelas shook his head disbelievingly. “Do you even know what you ask?” He sadly faced the glimmering liquid of the well. “As each servant of Mythal reached the end of their years, they would pass their knowledge on… through this.” He turned his golden gaze back on Mahanon. “All that we were. All that we knew. It would be lost forever.”

“And you’re left alone to shoulder that burden for all these years,” Mahanon said quietly.

“You cannot imagine.” Abelas’s voice hitched. “Each time we awaken, it slips further from our grasp.”

“There are other places, friend. Other duties.” Solas said, catching up. “Your people yet linger.”

Mahanon shot Solas a surprised look. It was still ‘your’ but that Solas thought he and Abelas were of a kind… that was odd and new.

“Elvhen such as you?” Abelas asked scornfully.

“Yes. Such as I.” Solas quietly inclined his head.

Abelas turned his striking golden eyes away and down, a thoughtful expression replacing some of the derision. “You have shown respect to Mythal, and there is a righteousness in you I cannot deny. Is that your desire? To partake of the Vir’Abelasan as best you can, to fight your enemy?”

“I want to preserve what is left of Elvhenan to the best of my ability.” Mahanon sighed. “Morrigan has a point about Corypheus continuing to besiege this place. If it must be destroyed one way or the other, I would not waste it.”

“So be it,” Abelas said heavily. He firmly turned his back on the pool. “The Vir’Abelasan may be too much for a mortal to comprehend.” He looked into Mahanon’s eyes and the Inquisitor felt the chasm of age yawning between them, the impossibility of mutual understanding. “Brave it if you must, but know you this; you shall be bound forever to the will of Mythal.”

“Bound?” Morrigan scoffed. “To a goddess who no longer exists, if she ever did?”

“Bound as we are bound,” Abelas confirmed. “The choice is yours.”

“Is it possible Mythal may return?” Mahanon asked.

“Anything is possible.”

“Elven legend states that Mythal was tricked by Fen’Harel and banished to the Beyond.” Morrigan said smugly.

“‘Elven’ legend is wrong,” Abelas said before Mahanon could respond. “The Dread Wolf had nothing to do with her murder.”

“Murder?” Morrigan recoiled. “I said nothing of-”

“She was slain, if a god truly can be. Betrayed by those who destroyed this temple. Yet the Vir’Abelasan remains, as do we. That is something.”

“Who was her enemy?” Mahanon asked, taking a step toward Abelas.

“It is long past mattering,” Abelas told him sadly.

“Are you leaving the temple?” Mahanon asked.

“Our duty ends, why remain?” 

“There is a place for you, lethallin,” Solas said gently. “If you seek it.”

“Perhaps there are places the shemlen have not touched. It may be that only uthenara awaits us, the blissful sleep of eternity, never to awaken. If fate is kind.”

Mahanon stepped back and nodded. “I understand,” he said in elven.

“You could come with us,” Merrill also spoke in elven. “I have lived my life trying to recover as much of our lore as possible. There are many things I would ask you.”

“The Imperium went to great lengths to expunge elven history. you might be the last to know the truth.” Dorian reasoned.

“Would the elves of your lands listen to the truth?” Abelas asked them in King’s Speech.

“They might,” Merrill said in the same language.

“Would it hurt to try?” Dorian asked.

“It very well may, shemlen. Yes,” Abelas said sorrowfully.

Solas wished for Abelas to find a new name. Abelas nodded his head just once before striding away.

Mahanon and Morrigan turned to face the glistening surface of the pool. It felt cold and hungry, pulling his attention to it.

“You’ll note the intact eluvian,” Morrigan nodded her head toward the mirror set along the centerline of the pool. “I was correct on that count at least.”

“Is it still a threat? Can Corypheus use it to travel the Fade?” Mahanon asked.

“You recall when I took you through my eluvian, I said each required a key? The Well is the key. Take its power and Mythal’s last eluvian will be no more use to Corypheus than glass. I did not expect the Well to feel so… hungry.”

“Worrying, isn’t it?”

“Knowledge begets a hunger for more,” Morrigan said almost as if to herself. She stared into the pool for a moment before turning to him and speaking more clearly. “I am willing to pay the price the Well demands. I am also the best suited to use its knowledge in your service.”

“Or, more likely, to your own ends,” Solas accused.

“What would you know of my ‘ends,’ elf?”

“You are a glutton drooling at the sight of a feast. You cannot be trusted.” Solas said.

“Of those present I alone have the training to make use of this. Let me drink, Inquisitor.”

“You alone?” Merrill said sharply. “I am a mage trained in elven ways.”

 

“I have studied the oldest lore,” Morrigan claimed. “I have delved into mysteries of which you could only dream!”

“And never once heard of Mythal’s murder,” Mahanon noted.

“I never claimed to know all there was to know, merely more than you.” Morrigan insisted. “Can you honestly tell me there is anyone better suited?” 

Mahanon and Merrill looked at each other for a cold, sun drenched moment. “You bear her vallaslin,” Merrill said in their language at last.

“I am,” Mahanon said in King’s Speech. “I cannot give her boon to an unbeliever.”

“You would put superstition ahead of practicality. You lead the Inquisition. This is not a risk you can take.” Morrigan blustered. “I have the best chance of making use of the Well… for everyone. Let me drink.”

“Looking at it,” Merrill said softly. “Listening to it… That’s not just knowledge from the ancient elven priests, it’s their will.”

“How would you know such a thing?” Morrigan turned to Merrill.

“That’s what Abelas was telling us,” Merrill said, folding her arms. “The collective will of the priests puts anyone who drinks under a compulsion, a geas. Can’t you feel it?”

“That would match the legend,” Morrigan allowed. “But it does not tell us what the geas entails. I would still use the Well, but you are right. We must be cautious.”

“I am already sworn to Mythal’s service,” Mahanon pointed out. “If anyone is to use the Well, it will be me.”

“So you will take what little knowledge you can understand, and let the rest go to waste out of superstition?” Morrigan asked acidly.

“And who’s to say it will go to waste?” Mahanon asked her calmly.

“I do.” Morrigan said fiercely. She turned to stare at the pool and her shoulders slumped. “Perhaps it is better this way. Do as you will with the Well of Sorrows. But be careful.”

“Nothing of Mythal is to be taken for granted,” Mahanon said, turning to Dorian.

“I don’t want to lose you to a well,” Dorian said sadly. He flinched away when Mahanon reached a hand his direction.

Mahanon closed his eyes and took a deep breath as he turned back to the pool. Wading into it, the fluid was thicker than water and gelid for the sun painted the scene in yellow. As soon as he was standing in it, he knew he couldn’t back away. The Well had him in its grip. Scooping a handful of fluid in one gloved palm, he stared at it for a moment, knowing there was no option but to drink.

The moment the liquid touched his lips, Mahanon was sent somewhere else. The place was dark and filled with whispers and glowing fog. There was no answer to his questions, just information dangled barely beyond his grasp. And then the whispers began to make a kind of sense even though they remained noise. 

“Vir Mythal’enaste.”

He doubled over and the next thing he heard was Dorian: “Festis bei umo canaverum. If you don’t come through this, I swear I’ll kill you.”

Mahanon sat up on the hard tile of the bottom of the pool. All of the liquid was gone. He blinked around at his companions and smiled. With an effort, he heaved himself to his feet.

“Not dead,” Dorian said, anger and relief warring in his tone. “Well, that’s a relief. So… good? Bad? I’m dying to know.”

“I have so many questions!” Merrill all but bounced on her toes.

Smoke pooled around Mahanon’s boots, flickers of blue fire lighting it. He smiled wider with wonder.

Corypheus’s shout pulled his attention back to the moment.

“The eluvian!” Morrigan shouted and the mirror ceased to reflect the pool.

“Through the mirror!” Mahanon directed everyone. He went last, bringing up the rear just as Corypheus reached the pool. He caught a glimpse of a guardian spirit before he dashed into the crossroads. The sound of breaking glass followed him into those ghostly woods.

Mahanon stepped next to Dorian and put his arm around the mage’s waist, leaning into the contact.

“You did it again,” Dorian muttered, “sending me first.”

“I did.” He squeezed Dorian gently when he didn’t try to pull away.

“I hate you so much.” Dorian sighed.

Merrill began laughing. “Because you know how humans taste,” she giggled.

“This language is very difficult,” Mahanon said calmly. “How do we know which way to go to get back to Skyhold?”

“My key will only work for one of these mirrors,” Morrigan told them.

Even among the hazy mists and vague trees, it was easy to see the blue glow of the active eluvian. It took longer to reach than he would have expected but soon they were standing in a hall off the Skyhold gardens. as they poured out into the sunlit garden, he noticed it was close to the same hour they had left the Arbor Wilds.

“Inquisitor!” Mother Giselle called from the well. “We had word just this morning you had vanished.” She looked over the Inquisitor and his collection of mages, northern and apostate. “Are you well?”

“I am full of wellness,” Mahanon said with a straight face.

“You’re terrible, is what you are.” Dorian huffed.

***

Mahanon visited Dorian back in his natural habitat, the library, after being seen around the fortress. He let everyone see him not talking to the voices and looking as normal as possible.

Dorian was sitting in the armchair he occasionally slept in with one of Varric’s books in his hands. He looked up at Mahanon’s approach. “What happened at the elven temple… it’s got me thinking. I should go back, shouldn’t I? To Tevinter. Once this is done… if we’re still alive.”

It was like a fist had knocked the air out of Mahanon. He found himself blinking hard. 

Striding past Mahanon to look over the rotunda, Dorian continued talking. “All my talk of how terribly wrong things are back home, but what do I do about it? Nothing.”

“What does this have to do with the elven temple?” Mahanon asked in a strained voice when Dorian turned to look at him.

“We encountered ancient elves. A piece of history, something the Imperium didn’t destroy. Maybe my people can atone for what we’ve done. There is something still left to restore. Maybe not all of us want to, but that could be altered. If you can change minds, so can I.”

“What would you be preserving? A culture is nothing without its people.” Mahanon folded his arms tightly against himself.

“I’ve practiced this several times in my head and it never sounds right but here it is anyway: you’re right. The way some owners treat their slaves is abominable. That the rest of us let it happen is just as bad.” Dorian said almost pleadingly. “It needs to stop.”

“Could I… come with you perhaps?” Mahanon asked cautiously.

“Take you away from all this? I couldn’t ask that of you.”

“You’re not, I’m offering.”

“Tempting. We both know you would end up doing it all yourself. As much as watching my homeland beaten into submission would amuse me, this is something I need to do.”

“Alright,” Mahanon gulped a breath, his throat tight. “We talk later in private about how the Inquisition can most effectively back your efforts. And how you can contact us if you are in eminent danger of being assassinated or made Tranquil. And how we can contact you to get information. And-” He inadvertently made a choking noise. “And how I can watch your back the way you’re watching mine.”

“Amatus,” Dorian said quietly. “It’s your fault you know. You inspired me with your marvelous antics.”

Mahanon laughed bitterly.

***

“If you were Divine, what would you do?” Mahanon asked Leliana neutrally.

“Change things,” Leliana said enthusiastically. “Change everything! No more Circles. The mages will be free. The Chantry will accept them as the Maker’s children. In fact, it may accept everyone. Elves, dwarves, even Qunari! Why exclude them? The Chantry allows our differences to tear us apart instead of teaching us how we are the same.”

“That sounds… very different.” Mahanon said. The idea of Andrastians recruiting elves was especially alien. And not in a way Mahanon thought boded well for the Dalish. “I think Cassandra has better ideas.”

“I see. Then I should be glad it’s not up to you.” Leliana leaned against the railing the overlooked the rotunda. “It’s time for change, Inquisitor. The Grand Clerics know that. Justinia wanted the Chantry to grow but her reforms never took root. She was held back by tradition and was too gentle to face challenge. I won’t make that mistake.”

“And where do the Dalish fit into your improved Chantry?”

“We are all children of the Maker even if you do not embrace it.”

Mahanon didn’t hide the roll of his eyes. “Have a pleasant evening. I should check in on the Commander.”

“I will make them see,” Leliana said to his back.


	7. After What Pride Had Wrought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If anything about this seems wrong, ignorant, or out of place, then I'd like to discuss it.

The voices of the Inquisitor and the Dalish mage bounced around the library, blurring the liquid syllables of their language into something less like speech and more like the bird calls issuing from the rookery. Dorian could make out the form of their conversation and extrapolate from context some meaningful guesses as to its content but he couldn’t understand more than the odd word in Tevene and the occasional Orlesian cognate. 

The part of Dorian that expected everything to end in tears told him this was it. He had told the Inquisitor he was leaving and now the man was spending hours talking to a woman of his own people. Rationally, Dorian knew they were discussing the history the dead whispers in Mahanon’s mind were imparting to him. Merrill asked a question, Mahanon tried to answer, Merrill scribbled as fast as she could in a field journal, and then she started the process all over again. It had been going on since they had returned from the Arbor Wilds and the Inquisition troops had begun to peter back into the fortress. Mahanon paused to train and drink water and little else, Dorian felt.

Dorian was so busy stewing without looking like he was stewing that he didn’t notice they’d stopped until the Inquisitor put a hand on his shoulder. His tattooed face was solemn but Dorian felt like the elf’s eyes were smiling at him. “Have you come to tell me how much you adore me? I hear that so often.”

“Yes,” Mahanon squeezed Dorian’s shoulder gently. “And I’d like to talk to you. In private.”

Heaving himself to his feet, Dorian whispered in Mahanon’s ear, “Lead on, amatus.” Following the Inquisitor made for a good view of the man’s arse and didn’t let him see how nervous Dorian was. If he put his mind to it, he could have come up with an excuse to go back to the library but then Mahanon would be more insistent in the future and he was uncomfortably direct already.

Shutting the door, Mahanon caught Dorian’s wrist with his other hand and pulled him into a hug so tight Dorian was sure he could hear his ribs creak. As Dorian’s hands naturally found their places at Mahanon’s waist and the back of his head, the elf snuggled into his bare shoulder.

“Amatus, I need to breathe,” he whispered after a moment of stroking Mahanon’s hair. His shoulder tingled where Mahanon kissed it before he pulled away.

“We should discuss your plans for Tevinter. The Commander should be back today or tomorrow.” Mahanon went up the stairs into his quarters.

“I told you, this is something I need to do myself,” Dorian protested, following Mahanon.

“I’m not talking about doing it for you any more than Sister Leliana handled negotiations with the Empress for me. You’ll need allies to make real changes.” Mahanon turned and sat on the edge of his desk.

“You’re seen as part of the Southern Chantry.” Dorian felt his fingers go cold and a weight settle in the pit of his stomach.

“Oh, that shouldn’t last too much longer given what I just did.” Mahanon closed his eyes tiredly.

“That could be worse.” Dorian could hear the fear in his voice but couldn’t seem to rein it in. “Are you… alright?” He cringed at the inadequacy of the question.

A hoarse laugh escaped Mahanon and he folded his arms. “A matter of opinion, I think. I sleep, I dream, and when I wake up I know things I didn’t know before. Sometimes, they feel so much a part of me I don’t even notice until someone asks about them. And I hear them all the time. But it was my choice and I do not regret it.” He gave Dorian a mulish look, daring him to find fault.

Dorian sighed and set on the edge of the bed. “I do not begrudge you the work you do for your people.” Which was a dirty lie but Dorian tried not to begrudge him and that was more the point. “I have no idea what you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking I’ve met Corypheus three times and each time I’ve run away. I thought three times was supposed to be the charm but still I ran. I feel in my- bones? water? I feel next time I won’t have the chance to run away. He won’t let me. I’ve taken too much from him.” Mahanon turned those beautiful eyes on Dorian like he could use them to engrave his meaning on Dorian’s soul. “So if I should die and you survive and enough of the world is left intact to still matter, I want to leave the Inquisition in a place to help you.”

The pained sound of Dorian’s breath leaving rang harshly in his ears. “Good to know you have it all figured out.”

“Not that I plan to die,” Mahanon continued calmly, his lips pale. “But who does? Your plans for Tevinter are worthwhile. I hope to set things in motion to eventually eliminate slavery but in the meantime: you know who to talk to, you know more about who could be swayed, you know what the biggest obstacles are, and you want to do it. If you’re waiting for me to ask you to stay, I won’t. It would be cruel. I’m sure I could convince you, should I survive.” Mahanon’s voice cracked. “But you would resent me for talking you out of making your own mark. Maybe not right away but eventually.”

It was as if a giant’s fist had clenched around Dorian’s heart. All he could hear was his mother’s cold, dry voice whispering in his ear about the way magisters rose and fell on reputation. The reality of what he planned to do hit him like a hammer blow. It was something he wanted, yes. Wanting it, saying he wanted it, and laying preparations were very different things. The gulf between the words and the actions loomed wide and jagged for a moment. He realized Mahanon was waiting for him to answer. “A great deal will depend on who my father spoke to about my broken engagement.”

Mahanon nodded encouragingly. “Finding that out is the first step or is it part of another step? Knowing where you stand with your people?”

“Yes,” Dorian exhaled, the chill feeling in his chest warming a touch. “It’s not that any single scandal can fell a reputation. Death by a thousand flea bites is still death.” He snorted. “If my father and I are seen to be at odds it may create opportunities. People will try to sound me out to see where House Pavus’s interests will lie in the future. The same could alienate my father’s allies. And truthfully, I’ve been out of touch too long to know which possible connections would be worth the most.”

“Ambassador Montilyet might enjoy the challenge,” Mahanon said lightly.

“And then there are the rumors about you and me. On their own, I could likely turn that to my advantage given sufficient leverage. Maybe. But I’m likely to be seen as some sort of cat’s paw of yours, or you mine. In conjunction with upsetting House Herathinos, I’m the altus who ran off and fucked a barbarian instead of marrying a decent, law abiding Tevene woman. My reputation will not recover from that. So long as you remain a strong ally of Archon Radonis I’m not likely to be in much danger from the templars. If you’re dead,” Dorian stopped and heard those words echo in the loud silence between his ears. “If you’re dead, I might need to marry and show I’ve put this rebellious phase behind me.”

“Would you?” Mahanon sounded more curious than upset.

“Not very likely.” Dorian said, making an effort to relax his shoulders and lean back. “I’ll insist it’s a matter of integrity. I may need to duel someone from House Herathinos.” He tilted his head. “I’ll almost certainly need to duel someone from House Herathinos regardless.”

“I’m sure Sister Leliana can discover who they would choose.”

“At least I might have a chance at getting their enemies on my side,” Dorian rubbed his eyes. “There’s no getting around it.” He sighed. “I’ll need to get in touch with my mother.”

“You don’t talk about her much,” Mahanon said carefully.

“You could say that,” Dorian laughed bitterly. He reached for the hurt and anger he remembered associating with her and found them missing. “But her family’s connections could serve me well and she wasn’t the one who disowned me. She’s probably waiting for me so she can lord it over my father for years to come.” The sourness in his tone was more habit than real feeling.

“Is that why she wasn’t there with him?”

“It’s far too cold and barbaric this far south.” Dorian said, the relaxation no longer quite so forced. “I can almost hear her sending him to fetch me, ‘It was your ritual and you were the one who told him not to come back. You’re a grown man. You should be capable of cleaning up your own messes.’ Or something to that effect.”

Mahanon looked down at his lap and Dorian had the suspicion he was hiding a smile.

A furious knocking at the door interrupted them. “Inquisitor!” Leliana shouted.

“I’ll talk to Josephine and Leliana,” Mahanon told Dorian. As he walked by he held out his hand and Dorian squeezed his fingers briefly. “And we need to talk about if you and I both survive what do we do as an ‘us.’” He smiled shyly and went to talk to the spymaster.

Dorian sat in silence, watching the play of light and shadow on the mountains. The future yawned in front of him like a high dragon waiting for a snack and he was only armed with a torch in nothing but his smallclothes. Picking a book off the nightstand, Dorian settled in to read. Soon, the thread of a long dead scholar’s thoughts blotted out the sharp teeth he felt waiting for him.

***

The susurrus of whispers in Mahanon’s mind gave depth Morrigan wasn’t prepared to provide in her panic. The child, Kieran, had done something Morrigan thought impossible and left the fortress through the mirror. Instead of the vagueness of the crossroads they ran through the razor sharp Fade. When they reached the boy, he was standing in front of a woman whose age the whispers suggested was even greater than appearances implied.

“Mother!” The boy cried when he saw Morrigan.

The old woman turned toward them and Morrigan stopped. “Mother,” she said, resignation and resolution thrumming like a chord in a song the whispers already knew.

“Now, isn’t this a surprise!” The woman stood spryly enough.

“You took Kieran?” Mahanon asked uneasily.

“He came to see his grandmother, like a good lad. I’m told sense often skips a generation.” She kept the boy between her and Morrigan.

“Kieran is not your grandson!” Morrigan shouted. The denial made little sense to Mahanon given that she had just called the woman mother but he wasn’t sure he was inclined to get involved in a family dispute. Not in Morrigan’s favor anyway. “Let him go!”

“As if I were holding him hostage,” the woman said as if it were an absurd notion. “She’s always been ungrateful, you see.”

“Ungrateful!” Morrigan’s voice belled anguish and outrage. “I know how you plan to extend your life, wicked crone! You will not have me, and you will not have my son!” She jabbed her finger repeatedly at her mother, tears roughening her voice. Lifting her arms she began to perform a spell Mahanon didn’t recognize.

“Oh,” the old woman sighed wearily. “Be a good lad and restrain her.” She waved a hand at Mahanon.

Without thinking, Mahanon threw his arms around Morrigan, interrupting her casting. He tried not to but his body moved like a puppet dancing to someone else’s fingers. The feeling left him feeling slightly exultant and completely terrified. It felt like he was back in the Well, in the dark with shadowy whispers rushing in his ears.

“What are you doing?” Morrigan cried. “What… are you doing?”

“I don’t know!” Mahanon shouted, shaking his head.

“Of course you know,” the old woman’s voice said, a note of patronization creeping in. “You drank from the Well, did you not?”

“You… are Mythal.” Morrigan gasped in pain and horror.

Mahanon murmured a prayer in his own language, the whispers joining in with an antistrophe.

“There’s no need to stand on ceremony,” Mythal told him gently. She gave Kieran a small push and the boy ran into his mother’s arms.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” Kieran said, sounding very small. “I heard her calling to me. She said now was the time.”

“I do not understand,” Morrigan said brokenly.

“Once I was but a woman,” Mythal said huskily. “Crying out in the lonely darkness for justice. And she came to me, a wisp of an ancient being, and she granted me all I wanted and more. I have carried Mythal through the ages ever since, seeking the justice denied to her.”

“Then you carry Mythal within?” Mahanon asked, the whispers raising knowledge from their depths as swamp gas would rise from a still pond.

“She is a part of me, no more separate than your heart from your chest. What do the voices tell you?”

It was no more comfortable than sniffing swamp gas but Mahanon stilled his mind to hear the way her priests explained it. The thought was something just beyond words or an image he could describe. Opening his eyes, he gazed on the green of the Fade and felt an earthshaking revelation spill into the meager clothing of words. “They say you speak the truth.”

“But what was Mythal?” she asked rhetorically. “A legend given name and called a god, or something more? Truth is not the end, but a beginning. So young and vibrant. You do the people proud and have come far. As for me, I have had many names. But you… may call me Flemeth.”

Pride swelled in Mahanon at Flemeth’s praise. The part of him that had spent nearly a year aching for his Keeper’s reassurance relaxed. The fears that had nagged him about the rightness of his relationship with Dorian, the choices he had made as the Inquisitor, and his inability to be there for his Clan didn’t vanish but they did fade into the background. His breath came short and he noticed there were tears in his eyes.

At the same time a new question arose. Mahanon knew he was still himself because it was not the sort of question one of her priests would ask. “If Mythal is a part of you, why haven’t you helped us? We’ve been praying to you.”

“What was could not be changed.” Flemeth said heavily.

“What about now?” Mahanon asked hopefully. “You know so much…”

“You know not what you ask, da’len.” Flemeth said, a threat lurking in her golden eyes.

“Why did Mythal come to you?” Mahanon persisted.

“For a reckoning that will shake the very heavens.” Flemeth spoke portentously.

“And you follow her whims?” Morrigan shook her head. “Do you even know what she truly is?”

“You seek to preserve the powers that were, but to what end?” Flemeth’s tone remained rhetorical. “It is because I taught you, girl, because things happened that were never meant to happen. she was betrayed as I was betrayed- as the world was betrayed! Mythal clawed and crawled her way through the ages to me, and I will see her avenged!” Her voice echoed off the glistening rocks of the Fade. “Alas, so long as the music plays, we dance.”

“You know what we face,” Mahanon said, bringing his courage to bear.

“Better than you could possibly imagine.” Flemeth said more calmly.

“I pray for help and guidance.”

“So you do,” Flemeth said tiredly. “Once I have what I came for.” She looked intently at Kieran.

Morrigan pulled back in shock and shook her head fiercely. “No! I will not allow it.”

“He carried a piece of what once was, snatched from the jaws of darkness. You know this.” Flemeth said over the child’s head.

“He is not your pawn, Mother. I will not let you use him!”

“Have you not used him? Was that not your purpose, the reason you agreed to his creation?” Flemeth asked viciously.

“That was then,” Morrigan said miserably. “Now he… he is my son.”

Flemeth’s expression softened and she turned her gaze to Mahanon. She made as if to speak but Morrigan’s voice sheared the space between them.

“Flemeth extends her life by possessing the bodies of her daughters, Inquisitor,” Morrigan accused. “That was the fate she intended for me. I thwarted her, and now she intends to have Kieran instead!”

“What once was?” Mahanon asked, realizing after he spoke that he could have been more tactful. “He carries a piece of… what?”

“I am not the only one carrying the soul of a being long thought lost.”

“He is more than that, Mother.”

“As am I, yet do you hear me complain?” Flemeth asked. “Our destinies are not so easily avoided, dear girl.”

“Mother, I have to,” Kieran mumbled.

“You do not belong to her, Kieran! Neither of us do!” Morrigan shook her head.

“I don’t think that’s what they’re saying,” Mahanon frowned at Morrigan.

“Stay out of this, Inquisitor!” Morrigan snapped.

“You should listen more closely,” Flemeth said, steel barely sheathed in her voice. “Be grateful you did not drink from the Well. Imagine, bound to your dear mother for eternity.” Flemeth chuckled heartily. It was an eerily real sound in the green vapors of the Fade.

Morrigan collapsed to her knees in front of her son. “Kieran, I…”

“As you wish. Hear my proposal, dear girl,” Flemeth said sweetly. “Let me take the lad, and you are free from me forever. I will never interfere with or harm you again. Or, keep the lad with you… and you will never be safe from me. I will have my due.”

“He returns with me,” Morrigan said, on the edge of angry tears.

“Decided so quickly?”

“Do whatever you wish. Take over my body now, if you must, but Kieran will be free of your clutches. I am many things, but I will not be the mother you were to me.” Morrigan finished low and vicious.

Mahanon soaked in every word as best he could. Mythal was known to be harsh and unyielding, merciless and thorough. But she was not known for harming those she deemed innocent. Perhaps the boy’s soul was not innocent or perhaps this was her known cruelty. Either way, Mahanon was unsure how to interpret Morrigan’s reaction. As sadness filled Flemeth’s face and she turned toward her grandson, Mahanon knew that with a snap of her fingers he would stop Morrigan from interfering again.

She took Kieran’s hands and a blue light exited the boy’s chest to hover between them before being absorbed into Flemeth. She smiled fondly at Kieran.

“No more dreams?” the boy wondered.

“No more dreams,” Flemeth said with finality. As he smiled and walked back to his mother, Flemeth explained. “A soul is not forced on the unwilling, Morrigan. You were never in danger from me. As for you, Inquisitor, there is an ancient altar deep within a shaded wood. Go to it. Summon the dragon that is its guardian. Master it in combat, and it is yours to command against Corypheus. Fail, and die.”

Mahanon nodded once before Flemeth turned and began walking away. Mythal did not bestow gifts on the unworthy. Either he would prove himself worthy of assistance or he would die in the attempt. It was a clearer direction than he had possessed since he’d walked out of the Fade in Haven.

“Wait!” Morrigan cried but Flemeth did not even twitch.

“We should get back to the fortress,” Mahanon said awkwardly.

“Did this sully your image of your goddess?” Morrigan asked as they made their way back to the mirror. “To see her squabbling with her family like any other woman.”

“No,” Mahanon said, unable to hide his relief. “That is who our gods are. They check each other’s power. If the Maker is as the Chantry says He is, who stops Him when He goes too far?”

“The Chantry would tell you He cannot go too far. Or that if he did, it would be justified and thus not too far.”

“When I pray to Mythal or Elgar’nan or Andruil or any of the others, I am praying to someone with limits and boundaries. What limits does the Maker have? None but those He chooses, according to the Chantry. They rely on His wisdom to know when to stop. It is… unnerving how much they ascribe to Him.” Mahanon snorted. “And Mother Giselle asked if I could not find room for Him with so many other gods. As if I choose my prayers frivolously. ‘Be careful what you ask the gods for because they might answer.’”

“Yes, you were certainly cautious,” Morrigan scoffed.

“I am already bound to her. I am reluctant to gamble on it but something tells me she would prefer to have the Well loose in the world.”

***

It didn’t take very long for Mahanon to get word to all of the Dalish in Skyhold mostly because there were so few Dalish in Skyhold. For a place that was of the ancient elves, it was disappointingly cluttered primarily with humans and Andrastian elves. Still, there were enough to start circulating word about Asha’bellanar and Mythal. Mahanon did his best to downplay the role of the Well because he would need to speak with Keeper Istimaethoriel and Merrill a great deal more before they started piecing together the lore taking root in his mind.

“Inquisitor,” Mother Giselle said, standing in his path in the main hall. “A word.”

Mahanon gave her his politely listening face and tried not to think about how much he just wanted to sleep so he could leave for the altar as soon as possible.

“It has been brought to my attention that you witnessed something in the Arbor Wilds. Something that has renewed your faith in your gods. And that something happened in the gardens I saw you return through.” Mother Giselle watched his face closely as she spoke. “And you punched a man in the lower courtyard.”

“It may not have been very dignified but it was very satisfying,” Mahanon admitted.

“I imagine so,” Mother Giselle said disapprovingly. “But this is not the time for you to cause people to doubt you.”

“Tomorrow I’m leaving to tame a dragon. Once I have done that, I will face Corypheus. What more can people ask for?”

“People will always look for more.”

“And perhaps I am tired of it. Perhaps I am tired of being circumspect about my beliefs and being made to feel that I should be ashamed of my people’s culture. I have never made a secret of what I am. I certainly never asked to lead nor was I consulted.” Mahanon glared narrowly at her, remembering that night in the Frostbacks.

“Inquisitor-”

“If they have an issue with how I choose to lead, I will listen. If they have an issue with my faith, then I will take such criticisms as permission to return the scrutiny,” Mahanon said harshly.

“They are one and the same, Your Worship,” Mother Giselle said with pointed respect. “Rumors that you are a worshipper of demons could divide the force you have spent months constructing.”

“Well, that’s very simple,” Mahanon said crisply. “I don’t worship demons.”

“Your Worship, I believe these beings you worship may be aspects of the Maker but-”

“What does that mean?” Mahanon involuntarily scrunched up his face. 

“-others will not- It means that they are pieces of the Maker, appearing to you in forms you find familiar.” A frown twitched across Mother Giselle’s face.

“Why would He do that?” Mahanon felt an all too familiar resentment at his own bewilderment rising in his throat.

“Perhaps He wishes to guide you-”

“By lying to us.”

“By giving you what you need to follow Him.”

“Then why even bother trying to convert us?” Mahanon asked peevishly. “If you think we might be following the Maker against our will then why is our faith banned in Orlais?”

“As I was trying to say, others believe you are demon worshippers regardless.” Mother Giselle said with a little more heat than usual.

“I’m not in control of whatever idiocy ignorant shemlen allow to wander through their heads.”

“No, but you are foremost of your people to many Andrastians. If you were more circumspect-”

“They might be able to pretend they’re following an Andrastian convert or a Dalish elf with special dispensation from Andraste or even better, one of the good elves! Not like those sneaky, backstabbing elves who eat babies and commit human sacrifices to their demonic gods!” Mahanon felt his voice rising and heard the other conversations stilling but he continued as the words filled his mouth from the box he’d tried to keep them locked in. “I am not misunderstanding you, that is what you are saying, yes?”

“Inquisitor, please, that’s not-”

“Well, then I ask what message it sends if I act ashamed of my people! What are the shemlen going to think if even when I am in a position of power I continue to hide my faith? What message does it send if I surrender so quickly my beliefs? The Inquisition has my loyalty! It has my blood! It has those things because my beliefs say that giving my loyalty to those who are loyal to me is just and fair! My beliefs say that if others shed blood in my cause then I should be prepared to shed blood for them!

I believe my gods may have chosen me to fight Corypheus. I believe my faith may be rewarded.” His voice became quieter, a thing for him and Mother Giselle alone. “ Unlike you, I do not believe the Fade is the home of my gods. I believe Corypheus can destroy this world but I do not believe in the throne he seeks.”

Turning, he addressed the hall. “I am the leader of this Inquisition and I am a Dalish elf. If you hate elves, you hate me. If you hate the Dalish, you hate me. I do not stop being what I am simply because I am separated from my Clan. If you take issue with that, then I ask you what your response would be if people expected you to renounce your family, your village, your country, your beliefs. Would you surrender or would you insist on fighting for what you hold dear? Which response do you want in a leader? I hold this world dear and I will fight for it!”

There was a moment of silence and then he recognized Varric’s voice starting a cheer that other took up. Not everyone but enough that Mahanon felt he’d made his point.

“You’re into some weird shit, boss,” Varric muttered to Mahanon when he paused by the fireplace. “But you’re our best bet. Shit, you and Chuckles are our only bet. And I have to admit, that scene is going into a book at some point.”

“Thank you, Varric,” Mahanon said, his voice hoarse and cracking.

“Don’t thank me yet. It still might be the speech the hero gives before his tragic last stand where he learns he went horribly wrong.” Varric cautioned.

“Inquisitor!” The ambassador sidled up to him. “Did you really just tell off an influential Revered Mother in front of the whole hall and publicly announce your refusal to join the Andrastian faith?” she asked frantically.

“Yes.”

“Do you know how much damage control I will have to do with Orlais?”

“Think of it as a new challenge. They’ve already publicly thrown their support behind us. It’s a little late for her to distance herself now.”

“Yes but she has enemies who will use this against her. This is such a mess.” She fussed.

“I’m tired, I’m going to bed. Tomorrow I’m getting up early to go find a dragon. It should be loads of fun. A pleasant evening to you both.”

***

Dorian was sitting in the chair behind the Inquisitor’s desk when he heard Mahanon’s feet on the stairs. He stoppered the bottle beside him and rose to meet Mahanon with a flush feeling of warmth.

“I just did something very stupid.” Mahanon’s shoulders slumped under his beige tunic and fear tightened the skin around his eyes but his mouth was more relaxed than it had been in some time. He placed his hands at Dorian’s waist. Dorian could tell the moment the elf smelled him because the look of disappointment on his face was like trying to hold a hot coal. “Have you had dinner?” The question tried to be innocuous but Dorian felt its judgment anyway.

“I was waiting for you. What did Leliana need you for?” Dorian asked, bracing for a fight.

“Morrigan ran through her mirror and we found Mythal,” Mahanon said and kissed Dorian. “Then I went to talk to the traders in the lower courtyard about armor upgrades and overheard a man complaining about elves so I’m punched him in the kidneys. Then I went into the main hall and yelled at Mother Giselle.”

“You said you did only one stupid thing,” Dorian said.

“Let me arrange dinner and I’ll tell you in detail.” Mahanon walked a couple steps away before looking back at Dorian. “And please, no more drinking tonight?”

The glow faded a little and Dorian sighed. “You ask so much of me.”

“Tomorrow we’re leaving to find a dragon.” Mahanon smiled weakly. “I’m thinking of your hangover.”

“Fair enough,” Dorian sighed and cleared a space for them to eat. The flash of Mahanon’s knife in the candlelight as he used it to illustrate his point had been cute but now it was annoying, distracting. The warmth of Mahanon’s hand on his knee was still welcome and comforting, more so than he could bring himself to say aloud.

As Mahanon described his meeting with a goddess or something close enough to one that Dorian didn’t want to think about it, Dorian noticed how small and fragile Mahanon looked. He was beautiful the way a knife blade was beautiful, sharp and precise. But twisted the wrong way he would shatter. The thought made him thirsty but he simply reached over and took Mahanon’s knife out of his hand and laid it on the table.

Mahanon gave him a rueful smile and returned to his story, using the blades of his hands for emphasis. His smile of wonder as he spoke of walking through the Fade with Morrigan and her son, made Dorian’s chest ache. The description of his confrontation with Mother Giselle filled Dorian with an emotion he couldn’t name but it had something of shame and something of pride and something of fear to it.

When they were ready for bed, Mahanon in just his braes and Dorian in even less, and Mahanon’s arms were around Dorian he whispered, “One of these times you’ll run into something that bites back harder than you do.” He pulled the elf into bed with him. “Sleep here tonight,” he tried to make it less of a question and more of a demand but he felt certainty slipping away from him like water through a sieve.

The frown between Mahanon’s eyebrows was faint but unmistakable. Dorian expected him to say no, it wouldn’t be practical with them riding off to find a dragon. He needed all the sleep he could get. Deeper down, fears fluttered through Dorian’s mind that Mahanon was angered by the question. Disgusted by Dorian’s weakness in needing to ask. That now that he had a firm direction and reassurance from his goddess he would push Dorian away.

Kissing him tenderly, Mahanon murmured, “Alright.”

The rhythm of Mahanon’s breathing as he snuggled against Dorian’s back was loud in his ears but not loud enough to silence his thoughts. It wasn’t a particular thought that gnawed at Dorian. There were several circling his mind like dogs waiting for a moment of weakness to pounce. One was the odd hollowness where he’d thought he’d cultivated his bitterness toward his mother. He could clearly remember his reasons, he’d hugged them to himself for years, polishing them until they shone in his mind like pins.

There was the stomach clenching moment of being at Vyrantium and seeing one of his classmates receive a visit from her mother. The delight had lit her face like a bonfire and she had run into her mother’s skirts with unfeigned enthusiasm. Dorian would have been less surprised if she’d sat down on the steps and whinnied like a horse. There was the time his mother had embarrassed him in front of Martius by dragging him away from the party by his earlobe to lecture him on decorum. There was the way that his first dinner home on visits from Vyrantium had inevitably fallen into a pattern where his father asked about his classes, teachers, and classmates while his mother told him to keep his elbows in, stop acknowledging the slaves serving food, cut smaller bites, and so on. There was the way she had scoffed, “You? I think not,” when he had asked to help her do magic as a small child. The way she had looked him up and down and ordered her lady’s maid to fix his eyeliner. The way she had held it over him for months when he’d tripped over his adolescent feet and got blood on her second best gown. Dorian had enjoyed studying under Alexius and his mother’s reaction to his acceptance of Alexius’s offer was to pour herself a drink and tell him that Alexius was an academic and he should have apprenticed himself to someone with a better grasp of politics.

And the thing that had once ached the most: The way she treated her relationship with him as some sort of tick on her checklist.

  * Marry powerful member of the Magisterium with appropriate bloodline: tick.
  * Have healthy baby boy: tick. Have child confirmed as heir: tick.
  * Get heir into best Circle possible: tick. 
  * Introduce heir at all the right parties: tick.



Somehow, despite his familiarity with his very good reasons why he disliked his mother and avoided her company he found himself remembering other things. When he was thirteen and his teachers at Vyrantium had covered the history of Qarinus, she’d had a fairly pleasant conversation with him about it where she’d wistfully told him history had been her favorite subject. At the time, he’d thought she was trying to ruin his enjoyment of his favorite class. When he was sixteen, they’d strolled past a group of guardsmen going through sparring exercises and he’d had a rush of pubescent lust that had roared louder than the Waking Sea. His mother had waited until they were alone and said, “I appreciate a well turned calf as much as anyone but do try to be more discreet.” He’d assumed she’d brought it up with his father as another way to find fault.

And if he were being honest with himself, something Dorian tried not to do more than necessary, he knew why. And that made it worse. Because he wanted to believe it was just another item to check off or a reluctance to give up on the only child her marriage had produced. But whenever he tried to resurrect his antipathy for her he heard again, “Don’t be ridiculous, Halward. You’re more likely to destroy his mind.”

All in all, Dorian would rather not think about the mix of emotions that statement’s echo called up in him. But he wanted to change Tevinter and that would unavoidably mean making an ally of his mother. It would be a long time before he could trust his father again. He’d turned against his patron in a singularly spectacular manner. Felix was dead. Mae and his mother were the only allies he had left. Blowing up his arranged marriage and his patronage would make most people wary of him. Worse, his mother had warned him he needed to cultivate more friendships, alienate fewer people at parties, and go to greater lengths to avoid scandal. He’d thought it was another item on her list: ensure viability of heir’s political career. “We live and die by who we know and who owes us. You’re in a position to become Archon. There will be no middle ground for you, my son.”

But Tevinter was worth saving and his amatus was correct about the breadth of the changes necessary. He would need to sit through his mother’s admonishments and face the stark, unrelenting terror of Tevinter politics. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

“I can’t sleep with you thinking so loud,” Mahanon complained.

“Sorry, I wasn’t aware you had turned into a mind reader,” Dorian snapped.

Mahanon’s answer was to poke his hip.

“Amatus, where do you plan on going?” Dorian asked before he had a chance to think better of it.

“If I survive, first to my Clan. Then… there are rifts all over. I planned to do some wandering and closing the ones that are the most bother. The free Marches first. Then maybe Rivain and then Antiva or Nevarra. Maybe the Anderfels if they’ll have me.” He paused and swallowed audibly. “I was thinking. That could take me awhile. And if I’m there and things go poorly in Tevinter-”

“You’d be in position to come riding to my rescue?” Dorian asked sourly. He could feel Mahanon’s shrug against his back.

“Or if things go well enough I could officially come to seal rifts and see- See what you want, then.” Mahanon said more diffidently.

“If I get into real trouble, you’d need to be on hand to help me, amatus.” Dorian said, his throat tight. “Chances are I’d be made Tranquil before you even heard a breath of it.”

Mahanon squeezed Dorian and buried his nose against Dorian’s shoulder. “Magister Tilani got word to us.”

“That’s true.” Dorian’s breath came easier, thinking about that. “Thank you.”

“I would still be your ally if you found one of your own people to-”

“I make no promises,” Dorian cut in urgently.

“I do,” Mahanon answered simply. “If you are working to make Tevinter a better a place, then so long as I can aid you, I will. Whatever else happens.”

Three allies. Dorian fell asleep curled around that thought.

***

Varric hurried down to the Herald’s Rest after the first few people he saw running that direction. The sight that greeted him was nothing he would have expected. The Inquisitor was rolled under one of the tavern tables yelling up at Sera who had her bow out and aimed downward.

“Say words that mean something!” she shouted at the Inquisitor.

Despite not knowing elven from a hole in the ground, Varric was fairly sure the phrase Mahanon spat back translated as, “Words that mean something.”

“You’re a right tit, you are! Bleedin’ Herald of Andraste! You sound like a right idiot!” Sera kept shouting louder and louder as Mahanon continued to shout in his own language. “Elfy types are backwards and smell like halla butt! How does that sound in your stupid words?”

“Val Royeaux smells like rotting fish guts and urine! Halla butt is an improvement.” Mahanon called back. “And if you want to insult my gods some more you can do it in my language! Everyone tries to make me talk about it in theirs where I can’t explain myself!”

“That’s ‘cause there’s nothin’ to explain! The Maker exists and Andraste is his bride or whatever!”

Whatever Mahanon shouted back sounded fairly vicious. “So I don’t care!” he finished.

“What d’you mean you don’t care? You been to the Fade-”

“Which is home to Spirits and demons! Not my gods!” Mahanon made a disgusted sound. “Sometimes I think the best thing we did was tattoo our religion on our faces. It saves talking and talking and talking about it. You want to believe in the Maker? I’m not stopping you. Why is it so important to you?”

Varric caught sight of Solas joining them. He looked like he’d swallowed a bug.

“‘Cause it is!”

“A very full and complete answer. No wonder I can so easily understand what you want from me,” Mahanon said like he’d been taking lessons in sarcasm from Sparkler. “Maybe if it was really so important to you, you’d tattoo it on your face!”

“Maybe I will!”

“Will the both of you knock it off and let us get back to drinking!” Krem shouted at them. “Your Worship.”

“That depends on if she calls me a demon worshipper again.”

“They can’t be gods! They’re demons! If they’re real they have to be demons!” Her arrow landed next to the table.

“How about you put the bow away, Buttercup,” Varric called soothingly. “Then the Inquisitor can leave.”

Sera glared at him for a long moment before shouting, “Fine!” She loudly stomped back to her room and slammed the door.

Mahanon eeled out from under the table and gave Krem a nod. “I was just asking for a Red Jenny update,” Mahanon muttered to Varric. “And she started speaking ill of my religion.” He looked almost shamefaced. “And then she called me stupid. Over and over.”

“Yeah, that’s Buttercup,” Varric said tiredly.

***

Mahanon was full to his eyeballs of waiting. He had been waiting for a year for events to line up to give him an opening to kill Corypheus. He was done running away. He might die and that was something that made his knees shake and his bladder feel overly full.

His War Council faced him with the same grim determination they had turned against the Arbor Wilds.

Things were going normally enough until his hand suddenly flared with green light and the soul sucking pain returned. He held his wrist and stared into the green depths of fire and knew that either he or Corypheus would be dead before the day was out. A sense of calm detachment stole over him and he felt a rictus grin fix itself on his face.

The same clarity he had felt firing the trebuchet into the Frostbacks same over him. The way was clear.


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anything about this seems wrong, ignorant, or out of place, then I'd like to discuss it.

Things got quieter after they left Varric in Kirkwall. Mahanon had told Merrill he wouldn’t mind if she stayed too but she said it’d be too quiet after Varric went to Weisshaupt and he’d offered to introduce her to Keeper Istimaethoriel.

Wycome grew slowly larger on the horizon. The summer sun beat down on them as Dorian complained about the insects.

“You don’t have to come with me inside the city,” Mahanon told Dorian in a low voice.

“Ashamed of me, are you?” Dorian said lightly but with a hurt undertone.

“From some of them the kindest thing they’ll have to say is that at least you won’t get me pregnant,” Mahanon said softly, touching Dorian’s hand.

“Not for lack of trying,” Dorian muttered.

When Dorian didn’t push him away, Mahanon linked his fingers with Dorian’s. “And they’ll have heard from Keeper Hawen by now.”

Dorian stiffened and didn’t speak for a handful of heartbeats. “You did that on purpose.”

“Better they find out from me when I have a chance to prove my loyalty to The People than later when all they can say is that I was too ashamed to face my misdeeds.” Mahanon watched Dorian’s face tighten and then deliberately smooth. “Not that I think this is a mistake but they will. If you don’t want to deal with that, no blame here.”

Gently disentangling his hand from Mahanon’s, Dorian took a deep breath. “No. I’ll think of this as practice.”

“Thank you,” Mahanon whispered. The lines around Dorian’s eyes softened, tugging at Mahanon’s heart.

Rahne met them at the gate, anger pouring off her. “Finally,” she snapped. Her red hair was back in tight braids, her dark red vallaslin complementing her flush to remind him vaguely of a ripe apple.

Mahanon stubbornly stopped and insistently made introductions. Rahne ignored Dorian presence and scowled at Merrill. “You’re the one as got your Keeper killed?”

“Well, that’s not-” Merrill began.

“Don’t do it here.” Rahne grunted. “The First and the Keeper are uptown. I’ll guide you.” Her body moving with the stiff legged gait of a hissing cat, Rahne led them through twisting lanes without speaking. When they hit one of the larger squares, she glared at Mahanon. “I’m glad you survived. They’re through here. I’ll let them chew you out.”

“That was-” Dorian murmured.

“Yes.” Mahanon said ducked his head.

“Andaran’atishan, da’len,” Keeper Istimaethoriel said, opening her arms wide. For a moment he felt like he was a small child again as he rushed into her arms and hugged her close. “And you’re the mage with the research,” she said over the top of his head.

He let go and looked around the room. It had been set up as a meeting hall with rows and rows of hardwood benches and tapers fluttering in a draught. There were dark hangings rippling slightly in the internal breeze. It was so removed from a caravan of aravels he felt like he was dreaming.

“And you’re the mage who’s bedding my grandson,” Keeper Istimaethoriel’s voice brought Mahanon’s attention back to the moment.

“Grandson?” Dorian sputtered. “You couldn’t have given me some warning?”

“Didn’t I?” Mahanon frowned in concentration. “I thought-”

“No! You most certainly did not! It was always Keeper this and Keeper that.”

Mahanon looked wide eyed at the Keeper. Her stark white hair was cropped short and she was wearing a green variation of the traditional robes. She looked ten years older than when she’d sent him. “I did mention that my sister is the First, right?”

“Yes, you got that. You just omitted that you are introducing me to your _grandmother_.” Dorian fumed. “Which, I apologize. I am Dorian of House Pavus. It’s a pleasure to meet you, madame Keeper.”

“Just Keeper will do,” Keeper Istimaethoriel. “My grandson has always been very conscientious about my position meaning I need to put the needs of the Clan first.”

Understanding dawned across Dorian’s face more profoundly than the situation implied to Mahanon. “That explains a great deal.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Ellana said, entering the room. “Andaran’atishan, little brother. As I understand it we have much to discuss and little time to do it in.”

“What are you-”

“Come, sit,” Keeper Istimaethoriel gestured at the front row of benches. “Food will be brought. Your letter spoke of magic and history.”

Still confused, Mahanon sat down for an interrogation harder and more thorough than he’d received in Haven.

***

The very air was green and gold, filtered through tall stands of trees. The road to Tevinter forked to the north. Mahanon Istimaethoriel of no Clan’s path lay east. The roots of the trees laddered the ground between the roads to form a step that made Mahanon the same height as Dorian.

“Can you at least tell me you hate me?” Dorian’s arm steadied Mahanon on the root though Dorian was the one trembling.

Mahanon kissed Dorian for as long as he had air. He said almost under his breath, “Ar lath, ma vhenan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Acknowledgements:
> 
> A big thank you to my beta reader [samvimes_ftw](http://samvimes-ftw.livejournal.com/profile). All errors are mine and there'd be a lot more typos without her. Another thank you to [booknerguru](http://archiveofourown.org/users/booknerdguru) who checked my understanding my history and gave me ideas on how to use it.
> 
> The youTube channels I found most helpful in writing this fic are [DanaDuchy](https://www.youtube.com/user/DanaDuchy), [FluffyNinjaLlama](https://www.youtube.com/user/FluffyNinjaLlama), and [Annatar](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC2HpjzeBX_bCSUpe9EpIsxQ).


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